I'm on my toilet again. Napping again. Na, I'm editing the stories I abandoned months ago. There are things I write that I forget I wrote. Things I string together that I don't realize I've strung together until I take the time to review and regroup and recognize my thoughts in the words. Often times I feel like it wasn't me who produce what ever I produce. Especially when I set it aside for months on. And rereading now what I've done before ...this phase of my life as of late (the over-sleeping, over-drinking, idle misery that I deliberately deluged into after choking in nursing school)... it really feels like another person wrote what I'd written then. And I don't recognize the changes that occur in me until I reread. Because to me, I'm the same every day and have always been the same since the dreariness of my childhood. But I'm never the same. Fuck, I'm feeling my mind clear up. (This is, if you must fucking know [which you must because all my parenthetical statements are the things I kind of...sometimes... hope you'd wonder about me], due to the glorious fact that my parents lovingly ambushed me with yet another talk about my future). And with this, I cleaned my industrial park of a room, fixed my wall that was shedding of my shit, put my clothes away, and am doing laundry. I don't know how long my mind will be this clear for because these moments are only moments after all. And I know they're not rushing me. but fuck, I need to take a step to fucking anywhere.
We're all feeling too old for all this shit.
