As her birthday rolls around again, getting me thinking about the dear friend I lost touch with so many years ago, it's begun to pound around inside my head, blocking out all other thought: I want so badly to write a bit more about the way that I've been changed by the experience of losing her.
I want to, but I can't.
In the meantime, there are still things to be done around here. Laundry to cycle through, rooms to clean, organizing to manage, activities to plan.
I want to, but I can't.
Before I can even find the energy to keep a decent house, let alone set my sights high enough to consider actually coming up with structured projects to do with the kids, I've got to figure out how to get myself sleeping again. That all starts with going to bed at a decent hour, and giving up a little bit of the only "adult time" I have left to search for what's left of myself in.
I want to, but I can't.
At the very least, I could try to get myself motivated enough to put my focus into blogging more regularly again, and striving for a little more quality and creativity while I'm at it.
I want to, but I can't.
And all the while I keep coming back to the blasted essay that I
It has me doubting many things: just how well I've truly recovered from my college experience, just how fragile is my current state-of-being, just how realistic is my dream of ever truly writing if I'm still so easily stymied by the prospect of true peer review, and a deadline.
I so badly want to, but I can't.
Then again, I view my life through this lens more days than I'd like to admit. Somehow, I pull through them.
Perhaps there's hope for me yet.
Though from where I sit now... I wonder if maybe, I just can't.
