Somedays I write before breakfast. Today is that day. Just to get something out. Move it. Shift it. Empty. Before putting anything at all back in.
Today is the day. This morning I hurt. All over. It doesn’t feel worrying, more a dull, constant ache greeting me into Sunday morning. A sign that there is tiredness in me, that something is asking for attention. Somewhere in me wants noticing. And I’ll give it in a second. In the dance. But first, to write.
What is it to write? What does it do to the chemistry of us? The mood? It changes the ambiance perhaps? Brings life into more brilliant focus? Shifts and settles some of the uncertainty twisting around inside? I think it might just do all of that. It might just align me. It might just get close enough to the pain to dissolve it. Sometimes it does that.