So I’ve been up now since 3:30 AM listening to the rain and the sounds of Elton John and Styx in my head, toggling between the two as I try flipping over to my left and my right, but still no luck with sleep. Even thinking about my blog post for today and how I’ll start it, and getting stressed about it. Not liking what I started last night. Then of course, work: I’ve managed not to think about it at all for more than a week.
It’s dark now in the mornings which is good, because I can create a moody morning atmosphere when it feels like I’ve got the house to myself, after I’ve fed the cats and the dog and got my coffee. We’re in a passageway between seasons now, feels a bit like the airport with some pent-up expectation in the air.
Chris wanted to be a writer too, which I never knew, and told me he found drafts of sci-fi stories he started when he was cleaning out his mother’s attic, after she died. The problem was that he could never finish anything, he said.
With all the directions you can go, it’s easy to feel paralyzed and just go nowhere. I over-thought it, which is easier than actually doing it, and more comfortable. There’s a reason I get up before I have to and sit here in a recliner trying to summon something. And when friends comment they’ve been reading it, it makes me feel real.
These are like footprints in the snow I can look back on, that close the distance between. The problem with white space is that there’s so much of it.