The Long Hard Mend
Why can’t I be that person now, I think. Why can’t I be that person now.
It is beautiful out. It is beautiful and I went for a run this morning and last night at work I wrote the first few sentences of a new story. I haven’t written fiction in–a year? Maybe not quite that long, though it feels a lot longer. I won’t count the novel because that doesn’t feel like writing fiction so much as it feels like a chore, or some kind of demon that keeps playing hide-and-seek.
How is it that you can be outside enjoying the day and the sunshine and having such a lovely time, only to wake up in the middle of the night and feel as though you’ve broken all over again? Why does it take such a long time, this business of putting oneself back together?