Friends, I have neither wisdom nor a stunning report. That’s how weeks go working for the Man.
Honest. No news is good news. Manageable frustration at work, no more than a jigsaw puzzle or junior year trigonometry: clearly this works out, but how? I should ride the bus more. I will. We all need more time, but the bus isn’t so long it nullifies it being free.
Fatigue is back, its gelatin vapor coating my arms and making them heavy, sometimes filling them with sparks. Bed is nine or nine-thirty, breathing a few times to a podcast voice or the sound of waves. Later, the room’s cube shines with darkness and I realize I am awake and how late it is. Exhausted, I take some more stuff to sleep. I sleep.
I bought a pair of better shoes, respectable for work and suitable for running, and most important: tolerably cool. Running helps but only wears away fatigue’s foamy edges. The solid center cannot be budged, though it disappears sometimes.
My shoulder bothers me from mousing and typing. I keep typing. The book is just started, but grows a little every day. Wednesday, my most tired day, the work after work is good. I could actually do this.
Outside, in the world beyond human things, spring is coming. I notice midweek the trees budding. I can’t remember if late February is the normal time for this, or if this is another global warming sign. The trees don’t seem upset. Worms can’t be, no robins here yet.
We are in a middle time, neither winter nor spring, the light coming a little sooner and staying a little later. We are not quite expectant, but have a deep expectation. We are building headlong to the bright time.