When slice-of-life doesn’t cut it anymore

Eyes closed, on my back, losing touch with my position in space. Voices passing outside the door, in the hall. Someone pushing a cart. Someone running water. Can’t feel my hands, can’t move my feet. Mind is awake. I can see behind my eyes, feel the edges, like moving inside a cave, no light.

I am dying inside in small ways, cells sloughing off, like a tree losing its leaves, changing color, still standing after it’s died.

I’m getting ready to set up my space in the garage and write a story, at last. I’m facing the wall under the stairs, surrounding myself with music and scents, clipping herbs and animal parts, making sparks in the dark for winter time.

Categories: Uncategorized

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2 replies

  1. It sounds like the way I feel when I read too many blogs. I must, must read a BOOK. It feels good to dig in and lose yourself. Best wishes and please, for all of our sakes, as well as your own, do it! I look forward to reading what happens when you declare yourself “writer” and stake out physical space for it.


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