Writing is hard. I am distracted. Nights I just want to read or sleep or think. I’ll come back.
Weather here turned sunny and cloudless and hit the 90s. Far from melting in misery I’ve been drinking it in; letting the heat warm my cold bones – bake the chill from my soul. In the morning when it’s early, before 6am – it gets light so early now, I like to go outside barefoot. Sometimes there’s still residual heat in the pavement, or at least some neutral temperature that feels warmer than the outside air. It’s like some perfect non-temperature suspended between the cool of night and coming heat of the day. Sometimes I imagine it like the perfect temperature of a womb; just a built-in sense of pure comfort. Not hot; not cold; just comfortable.
May through August is full of holes: travel; relatives in town; progeny. Work is suffering from my swiss-cheese-focus. The simplicity of a day off here, a day off there, crushed by the weight of the requisite catch-up. And this baby is coming. Like a train at night I’m not going to see it until the light is on me. I can hear it coming, echoing somewhere far away and I can put my ears on the track and listen to the rolling steel. I’ve been feeling guilty. When Keaton came my entire brain, my every breath and blink, was consumed with thoughts of her. The second time around it feels almost “routine.” Sure we’ve planned and readied but it’s nothing like what it was with Keaton. I guess that’s to be expected… but it still makes me feel… guilty.
Such a random bit of writing. Told you it’s hard. Goodnight.