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Late junctions
By the time I get time to write anything I've forgotten all the things I want to write, or else they've become mere retellings of dreams, in which all last night's luminousness has faded into flatness.
I get the kids to sleep, and I do all the chores that absolutely need doing -- the putting/throwing away of food-related things that will go off otherwise, the loading of dishwasher & washing-machine, the packing of school bags for the next day, and the bare minimum of tidying to stop me going actually insane -- and by then the sentence has run on so long I've forgotten where it started and what I was doing, and eventually I go to sleep.
The next day I remember that I was going to do something.
There were things I was going to do. Things I was going to write. I had things to say. I don't have things to say any more. All roads lead to the road not taken.
H will be 3 next Friday and it just terrifies me that all this nothingness is her actual childhood, the thing she'll remember, this thing, this absence of a thing, that's barely even memorable while it's happening. My life is scrolling past behind soundproof glass and I have no idea what the kids are hearing.
What was I going to do tonight? Eventually and intermittently sleep, I suppose?
I get the kids to sleep, and I do all the chores that absolutely need doing -- the putting/throwing away of food-related things that will go off otherwise, the loading of dishwasher & washing-machine, the packing of school bags for the next day, and the bare minimum of tidying to stop me going actually insane -- and by then the sentence has run on so long I've forgotten where it started and what I was doing, and eventually I go to sleep.
The next day I remember that I was going to do something.
There were things I was going to do. Things I was going to write. I had things to say. I don't have things to say any more. All roads lead to the road not taken.
H will be 3 next Friday and it just terrifies me that all this nothingness is her actual childhood, the thing she'll remember, this thing, this absence of a thing, that's barely even memorable while it's happening. My life is scrolling past behind soundproof glass and I have no idea what the kids are hearing.
What was I going to do tonight? Eventually and intermittently sleep, I suppose?