I closed my eyes last night. Opened them this morning. There were restless moments—too hot, too cold, repositioning of the pillow, and dreams—but now I’m up. At it. Into another day.
Dread has fixed itself to this morning. Life is unraveling quickly. Instead of a series of days and nights, each with beginnings and ends, it is a stretch of open-ended existence. I brewed coffee and waited as the black cat did figure 8s through my legs. Flipped the Snoopy calendar to 7. Something is off.
Gloomy. Wet. Cool. Trucks already disturbing the morning. Am I really that sensitive? To sound? Calendar dates? The weather? I suspect I am. Always have been. That’s what carries me upstairs, downstairs, into spaces, closing doors to behind me so I’m alone with these keys.
In the past month, I’ve written three stories. Shorts. As of now, they are vodka, hollow, and burying Mr. Beasley. Each has roots in other work but have grown into new bits. Scenes. Vignettes. I’ve submitted two of them. Shooting for the moon, places like The New Yorker. It’s fun. Stringing letters together so they make shapes, colors, and sounds. My favorite part is printing them on paper. Giving them life with ink and fiber. Leaving them on my wife’s desk to read.
She’s up now. With the gift of slow wakefulness. A long, deep breath into another day. Cat curled up on her chest. Sporadic morning traffic barely noticeable. Tires shooshing on wet pavement from rain we need to wash, water, and feed this world of opportunity.
~ KJ
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