A wake-up call. Time has slipped by me and it’s as though I have woken from a months-long dissociative episode to find life is exactly where I left it.
In the corner like a pile discarded clothes I have been too lazy to put into the hamper.
These months away from any writing at all have taught me that I should continue writing (even if no one is reading) and that I am an obsessive consumer of language, of music of anything that gives me the feeling of almost grasping it between my fingertips.
An almost.
However, my life has been a series of almosts. Almost lovers, almost finished puzzles and dog-eared books that sit in the other corner of my room collecting dust.
I have felt the distortion of time for many years. A disruption that has at times felt subtle and others like a wall of water pushing against your front door. This distortion and series of almosts have plateaued my life. Every time I find myself moving forward, I unknowingly exile parts of myself to an island of my own creation.
I have awoken on the island (once) again and feel tricked by my own psyche. I don’t need a man to play mind games with me – I do that just fine on my own. I have floated through this year on a flimsy life raft, and I can no longer seek refuge on an island that pulls me back into the past.
It is time to move forward. There is doing to be done. No more almosts, maybes or one foot out of the door experiences. I want to bloom in the presence of my experience. I want to find comfort and inspiration from the people and places that brighten my world. I want to hold the hand of the woman I am falling for – I’ll never know until I actually try. Until I actually do.
There is doing to be done. Goddamnit, there is so, so much.
200 Milligrams at a Time 