Perhaps there’s a problem with being THAT productive when the lights are on, because it has felt so easy to be numb and motionless when they go off. If I had more to do, maybe I’d have difficulty allowing myself to get dizzy with dark and velvet thoughts.
No matter how many times we spoke about dying, there was a fire in us that brought us back to life.
But here I sit, staring at three -- ... no... four now -- drafts just waiting to be published. And I am struck by a fear I haven't felt in a long time. That this isn't a safe place for me anymore. What could have caused it? Where did I go wrong? Fuck...