The morning after a big deadline is like the sea afte a great storm. It seems impossible for it to be so still. My to do list is scatterlings and orphanages, the apartment is at once freezing and rising in steam, New York is a ridiculous place to put your heart but we all do what we can with the cards we were dealt.
I take a slow, short run along the river, legs stiff with disuse, the air cold now and the leaves clinging to one last desperate plea for attention. I take pictures dutifully, amassing them on my phone like relics of each season. Here it was fall, here it was spring. The nights are so dark now, I lie awake thinking how there is never enough time for all the things you want to do.
The days are long but the life is short, is that what they say? It'll all be over soon.
I return to the word processor, my to do list screaming from a corner, abandoned. You've made it work before. Why wouldn't you be able to pull another miracle from that hat you carry, really?
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