Drafted my new schedule in Excel yesterday. So that’s done.
I feel like I’m writing around a hole in my chest. I’m scared it’s burned up all my creativity. I don’t want to write my blog. I don’t feel like doing letters, or logistics.
Lyrics from 21 Pilots keep playing in my head.
Gangsters don’t cry
Therefore, therefore I’m
Mr. Misty-eye, therefore I’m…
Can you save…
Can you save…
Can you save my heavy dirty soul?
The plan thus far is to write a letter, write the blog and look up those Morning Pages instructions and find my resume.
Stay in your lane, boy…lane boy…
We’ll see what I can get done.
Jumpsuit, Jumpsuit, cover me.
Maybe it was too soon for a schedule. Maybe a little more holidaying would have been nice. Binge-watch Dr. Who or read a whole book in one sitting. Read until the pain goes away.
Sunny outside. Plus twenty.
Maybe I’ll go for an ice cream and a hair cut.
Except I keep spontaneously bursting into tears.
Its like I know what I’m doing, where I’m going, what the mission is. And then I forget.
The last bout happened when I saw a rainbow on the basement floor in the dark, where I had never seen one before.
I love rainbows. Little blades of burning colour and light. Real magic. And an ancient symbol of promise after storm.
Can I take that? Can I take it that way? Was it for me?
The in-between makes it hurt.
No magic here.
Just a temp from Chiswick.