I miss Flow. In 272 more days I’ll have more time for … Flow.
There’s a swish and I’m disengaged. It’s that moment between wakefulness and sleep, when I can still hear the crickets or the podcast, but I don’t feel the rest of my body. That moment when my inner self tells me, demands me to rest. I rarely listen. I fight my own parts, surreal and tangible, and instead grope at one last thing. I work all day and tend to chores and “have to” items when I get home. What ever happened to that swirled fabric of space/time, wrapped around us like cotton-candy, that we used to call “free time?”
In my aged writing state, there’s a different sort of existence that happens nearly every day. It comes when the ocean of fatigue begins to swallow me, and I fight tooth and nail, to regain the surface. That one-more-thing is waiting, I know it, like a inflated raft marked “good book,”…
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