I’ve been staring at this cursor for the last five days, haven’t sat down properly with a book for longer. It’s forty-degree weather, sweat gets in my eyes and the air-conditioning runs exhaustively, the machine calm and steady. It’s repetitive, somehow reminds me of the seashells you put to your ear to listen to sea music, an unwavering note, with little ripples of variation you’ve to listen far more closely for. Of late, I’ve been missing the things I love – I sit down with a book and can’t read, click music off after five minutes, and sit down to write with a blank page staring back, even after an hour. Life is difficult sometimes.
To be caught in these moments of disappointment, of anger, of being at a still point, without any hope of movement forward or beyond should be disconcerting, but by now we’ve all been there so often we just throw up our hands and think ‘well, there’s always tomorrow’. And there’s always tomorrow to be happier, there’s always tomorrow to try again, but sometimes it feels a little trite. I find myself drifting into the comfort world of old TV shows, of friends who don’t demand too much of me, of room corners with pillows in the right place, the dog at my feet. I find myself acutely aware that I need comforting, and that makes it a little bit worse.
What upsets me too is, I write this when I’m out of it. Tomorrow, I’ll probably be in a better frame of mind, shape misery into better words, it’ll sound better, it’ll read and maybe you’ll think, hey, I know that feeling. Today, if you’re reading it, you’ll just ask that I stick to the books.
It’s forty-degree weather, the cursor is annoying. The dog is asleep.
Soon, we will return to the regularly scheduled program. Apologies for the inconvenience.