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I’ve been holed up in a hotel for the last two days with the intention to write. This was an early birthday present from my mother- child care, time alone. I wrote doggedly but not much. Caught some kind of stomach virus and blew more watery shit than words. Sometimes? Ass explosions and writing feel the same. I’ve cracked the curtain to remind myself that a world exists outside this room that in a few hours I must return to.
I am finding it extremely difficult to come emotionally honest to the page. I’d rather indulge in beer and rainbow twizzlers, pace, attempt to get myself off. It has been weeks since I’ve been able to get off, indicative of a larger block than mere restlessness. Or perhaps extreme dental pain. But that too has passed- I feel almost nothing, inside and out. Or rather, so much that my body has thrown the switch to blank.
The hardest part of living right now is overriding the sense of total futility. Despite everything, due to a bureaucratic fluke we may be homeless again within the month. And we may not, and instead enjoy the psychological tortures of arbitrary government threats and deep seated uncertainty while externally, everything looks just fine.
I’m slipping fingers in the fissures of myself and wishing that I were weak enough to crack.
Or, ya know, at least come.
Time to pack.