I love waking up early on Sundays. I make coffee and read the New York Times on the floor in front of my sliding door. The morning light is perfect in that particular spot, not too bright. Outside on the balcony my plants are still dripping from last nights rain.
I've been working through The Art of the Personal Essay for a few months now. Long beautiful narrative.
I've been very isolated the last week or two. Not going out much, not even spending time with my family. One of those solitary periods of deep silence. I'm working on motivating myself to be more productive when it comes to my writing but some old grief or fear swells up in me when I try to write anything other than my journal entry. Maybe more of a panic. It will pass. It has to.
I Don't Know What I Can Save You From
Kings of Convenience