Last night I washed dishes and freaked out and felt boring and old and took a bath and tried to get myself out of it. This morning I snoozed an extra hour and wore a dress I haven't worn in a while and came to work and felt like I'd be ok. Then today I felt just as fragile, just as out of balance as I did last night. Around 11am, I thought "that's ok, today you don't have to fight the battles or stand your ground or do anything just on principle."

Some days the notion of writing, of being a writer, buzzes just far enough out of reach that I almost imagine it has gone away. Like the mosquitoes that used to fly above my head while I tried to fall asleep, threatening to sting me if I lifted my head outside the sweaty sheets of mid-summer.

But then, just as the buzzing gets far enough away to imagine it's gone, it cycles back and I have an itchy red welt to prove it.

The satisfying itch to write. Thank the universe for that, my friends; when I don't know how to re-find myself, I discover this itch underneath it all, ever-present, almost irritating, but always silently waiting for me to scratch.

Something soon will change so this can happen. No. I will change something soon so this can happen. I will.

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