A deadline looms, sits like an illness at the base of my spine, aches like a reminder of my avoidance. The blank page stares at me, darker than it should be, angrier in its silence than any words it could procure. I pace the apartment, create imagined tasks on my to-do lists, they say it takes 10,000 hours to become and expert and aren't you decades into this mastery by now, doesn't it feel like perhaps this is your best skill?
The weeks of solitude tug at you, they flinch at the sunlight when it is offered, you snarl at the demands on your attention. The country falls apart, you sense the precipice just outside your line of vision, it's a familiar fall, tempting, even, as yet another task on your to-do list. Better drown in the abyss for a few days before I can get to this blank page.
You don't know why the monster moves to your chest, don't understand how it grabs a hold of you even as you politely decline. Your hands drip with tar, they stick to every surface, you are treacle. She says come upstate this weekend, just get in your car and go, and you sense the freedom at the end of her invitation, long to grab it like the tail of a kite, we are halfway through January and you haven't succumbed yet,
just keep your head above the surface,
keep kicking till the ocean floor comes up
to meet you.
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