Normally, I would have written this last night. I got off cycle over the weekend. I prefer to write at night. I know the words are often worse then -thicker, misshapen, iller-fitting-but my brain is softer. Gentler, easier to crack open and release. A three minute egg. The mornings, you see, especially Monday, are hard boiled. Hard. Boiled.
Everything today is bleary. The light was eager, but is thin. No meat on those bones. There may be nothing to bite into. Shouldering my way toward consciousness feels too hard. I want to, I may just give into the muffled feeling. All my non physical spaces feel cold and sore, like the sound of pea gravel under your sneakers when the hard earth beneath is almost bare of it.
Will for any movement beyond the pen/keystrokes needed to meet goals for my creative heart. I am bare of almost anything else. My work heart would be jealous, but frankly it thinks my creative heart just needs a chance. A taste of frustration, like bad fish, is cloying at at the throat of my disembodied sour puss mind. Must rinse it away. Face the day.