Week: Am I really still pretending?

I lack constancy, consistency. We all know this is true, but if the plain truth be spoken, we also know that nobody else really cares about this. So, there is no "we" in we.

Glad "we" cleared that up.

I can always tell when things are particularly good in my life, or particularly bad, based on my ability to write.

Poetry: only when my heart feels like it is being ripped from its mortal home within my chest. With pain, or joy. It doesn't feel that different, after all.

Prose: If I am feeling contemplative. Or if there is an urgency. And sometimes, just sometimes, when things are going so well that there is space for alternate universes.

Autobiography: Always, never. Sometimes.

Fiction: There is no such thing as truth. 

Stories for no one to hear or know or listen to or give a shit about: Generally.

Stories that change other's lives: Once or twice in a blue moon.

Fucks to give: Zero. 

Tears left: Indeterminate.

Sleep deficit: Insurmountable.

Self-censorship: Wavering. 

I've said this before, and I'll say it again, life is hard. Some days the fantasy of your car flipping over the edge of a rail, the instants of freedom that it might offer, before crushing you in sudden and welcome death unveils itself before your eyes as you are driving, angry, sad, furious, exhausted, tapped out. 

It might be easier, you think, to just stop. 

And it might. But you know you won't end it all. That your role as caretaker isn't your only role, but it is an important one, and you don't get to walk away. You just need sleep. So you do that. And you drink the best coffee that you have ever tasted, brought to you from the source, with loving hands. And you keep on keepin' on because that's all you really know how to do anyway.