The New Yorker
Even I'm tired of talking about it.
You have to sleep to dream, right? So there'll be none of that this morning. No revelations. No self-psychoanalysis. No ponderous trek through the back alleys of my brain.
I woke up today... no... back that up. I met the alarm today with a serious case of "the fuckits." Were it a weekend I would meditate, lift weights and maybe take a long walk. How long is long enough? Today might be a 20 mile excursion. It would take that much to shake out the spiders, and even then... That's not how it's going to go down though, but who cares? Anything you shake out creeps back in before you reach the other side of the day and lay down to lay awake again.
I was getting tired of dreaming anyway.
Random thought: You never know how small your life is until someone asks to see something that just isn't there.
Another random thought, or not so random considering the time of year, but the thing with birthdays and christmas and whatnot, is that they grew unmanageable. They became more trouble than they were worth. Like, who doesn't want a birthday... the cake... the gifts... the little bit of fanfare or recognition. But I just got afraid to hope or wish for it, because there was always a price tag. There was always going to be a debt of gratitude and you never knew how much you were going to have to pay until the bill came. That's how it was and sometimes you would end up paying all fucking year.
So... no. You can keep it all just the same.