Casting around to find something worth writing about today. It’s been a busy week, and time for reflection and longer writing hasn’t been possible. There’s a peculiar ennui that comes with being busy; an inertia that mimics, but mocks, direction. Motion without purpose. Energy without achievement. Exhaustion without creation.
On the way to a gala last night, we rode downtown past the blooming cherry trees. I feel as sightless and driven as the new sprung buds, but darkly jealous of their focus, their discipline, which gives them beauty. I lay awake all night, waiting for sleep. My limbs ache, grown weary from inaction but not exertion. I am hot and stale in the cool night air.
This insomniac haze will pass. This less-than-human automaton with my face will give way to someone better, someone rested, someone real. Until then, I abide, away in a place somewhere the other side of sleep.