The irony is I always wanted to work for a creative agency and now that I do they don’t call themselves that. I had to wash the day off of me. Two weeks working on the same thousand words. Words, words, words.

We got used to it, and that’s the problem with summer: you get used to it. Nine o’clock looks like this! Different colors made of tears. Silhouettes of tall trees poking the sky and me all alone with an orange fire and my sweater. We are not alone, it just feels that way.

They say you should never kick a cat, but I always do. Roxy got her collar off and now she roams free. Lily hasn’t figured out the subtleties of perfume yet. I couldn’t tell if it was lice in my hair or what, but it wasn’t moving and that was good. I’d gotten deep into a shrub with fungus and maybe got some on me. I showered and hit the hay early. The next day indiscernible from the last. No one puts anything away around here. No reason to get up, no reason to go to bed.

I caught the full yellow moon but it was kind of meh in the early morning sky. An owl cried and there was no one around. I lay there thinking, we just need to get through.

Categories: Memoir, microblogging, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, parenting, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer