You'd think, with the sudden windfall of time, that I'd have written reams by now. But it's difficult to read, even. Picking up a book takes initiative, and I don't have that. I don't have the initiative for breakfast, let alone expression. Sentences are complex structures that are beyond me. Words are evasive, their meanings slippery. Conversations - like trying to understand and be understood in a foreign country.
If I look at you blankly, or say something that I said five minutes before, or fail to engage with what you are telling me - I apologise. It's the black dog - the blue devil - monikers for the same malady; a warm, suffocating blanket. It smothers the will into won’t, and the can into can’t. It protects the soul from the bitterness of promise, concealing one from life while the non-sequitur of truth admonishes hope for hoping. I battle hourly for the truth - though I'm not sure I'll recognise it when I see it.
Until soon.
