I’m late to writing today but at least am writing again. What distinguishes writing and not writing is a gnawing just above my navel; no more than the afterthought of birds disappearing into holly hedges; the dirt-slow truancy of falling leaves. I’m caught up with classes I can’t seem to wall off from my thoughts. A day without work feels like rest less than theft and though I’m yet to fully love feeding the bag my fingers itch. Propaganda works like this. Our daylight is taken from us and yet we blame ourselves for not carrying the difference. Our assignments suffer, hearts, stuttering, stuffed into modules, left accosting dust: the taxes on abandoned rooms. Some are made to starve and given judgment for the shape of their descent. We all live with our amputations. Not that we must, or trust the why of it; but we often do.
I want us each to ask what am I to do with this extra hour that isn’t living our way towards dying? (For me, it’s being loved, loving, writing, but it’s surprising just how much escapes you if you focus on the rhythm in a sleeping dog’s breaths, the comfortable sigh across the room, the victor of a compromise with a sweetened tooth.)