There’s a heavy fog out this morning.
Driving through it was like watching a negative develop. It was like being a
part of an unfinished painting. Driving through
that fog felt like a half remembered dream. It reminded me of the quote “writing is like driving at night in the
fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole
trip that way.” —E.L. Doctorow. Been doing a lot of that lately; slowly moving
forward with no sight of what’s really ahead. At some point you kind of learn
to trust the unknown, sometimes you start to ease into the uncertainty, and
sometimes you just want to be rewarded for following your gut.
I’m not sleeping again. The dreams are
getting worse. Everyone is constantly talking. They’re so close and up in my
face. The situations vary but have the same underlying tone; I forgot to do
something or I have no idea what it is I need to do. The bags under my eyes are
getting ridiculous. A deprived badge of honor I would rather stop earning.
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