It’s hard to think clearly, I awoke tired, having slept little, and am at that awkward stage of inebriation between dry sobriety and verbose enjoyment of communication.
Wednesday was my birthday. I am now twenty-nine. Death to the old flesh, long live the new flesh.
Now, writing on a friday, I don’t fully recall the midway point of the week. As Patton Oswalt so perfectly described, birthdays of many years aren’t worth memorializing.
With one full week, five papers, two projects, and one final between me and a return to legitimate (read: fictive, creative, and horticultural) productivity, I’m having trouble focusing on the tasks at hand for my excitement for sleep and projects of my own. A chasm a hundred fall deep but four steps across. One leap and I’m through.
The various characters are waiting. The mist, the blood and ink and all the stagnated coagulated words run into each other as an expiring scab heap. Ten days and the flesh can flow. Begin checkout, arrival time is short.
I started a scene today and got three pages written in a single sitting. No more worry over what is left, but excitement for what is after. I’ll complete three of the eight projects this weekend.
My plants have been sitting patiently, convalescing in the lighted, heated backroom.
The mint about which I was unsure has sprouted tiny shoots, which is good as I’m already halfway through my mint tea.
Much to do before I’m allowed proper creativity, but there is in an end in sight.