i’ve been spending a lot of time in bed the last few days. sick. my body finally having enough of the stress i’ve been careful to hide with busyness and beer. i’m scared right now. the phrase on every would be comforter’s lips is “fresh start,” but it’s quite hard to feign excitement when you don’t know where to begin. when everything is covered in ash.
i wish some days it was easier to be kind to myself. i’m prone to kicking myself when i’m down. laying here catching reflections in the mirror above the bed while the voice in my head rages on. unproductive. unoriginal. boring. infertile. i tell my mom. she almost always knows what to say. let four hot, angry tears roll down my cheeks. have to stop. i already can’t breath through my nose.
a new book came in the mail today. woodcut by bryan nash gill. i’ve only taken a peak, but his work. each tree’s story…. i think i’ll shower. make a cup of tea. turn the pages more slowly. try to be nice.