I haven't felt much like writing lately. I don't hardly write at all,
in fact. Not in my journals, not my typical essays, not even much e-
mail. Working has made me want to couch-it every free moment. My
house is still 1/3 unpacked. Livable, but not in order yet. Work.
Necessary for money, but at what cost. A part of myself is in a box
along with all my other stuff. Well, it'll be there after my bills
are in order, waiting. Words never fail me, and they'll be there
always, no worry of them running out. Just kind of sad. Maybe I'll be
able to integrate my writing into my worklife too, just as I need to
do with play. Just as I learned to integrate living into my sobriety.
Dismal at first, but eventually a rhythm all its own emerged. A
normalcy that I didn't think was possible. I'll sit back and let that
part of fate take care of itself. Change is the one dependable thing.
Nothing is as it is for long, the good nor the bad. That's good I
guess.
drSue
Dec 20, 2004 12:09 a.m.