Maybe the answer is continued isolation and more sleep. I've woken up better than I have for a while. I slept well and had long dreams about a task that would be silly to write out. But it had to do with scheduling multiple opportunities for people to come to a barbecue I was putting on in an official capacity, but I had no desire to actually be there.
I'm at the point where I know this is likely it. There's no magic adventure waiting for me. I'll be lucky if I have another few years of this before the end. I'm ready for it. I feel separate and grainy anyway.
*
The work I do is useful and I listen to music while I do it. I cannot be certain I would be liked anywhere else I go. I have a home here so that's important. I hope to stick to myself and further go inward.
Perhaps I can do that somewhere else, too. I do not know. The point at the moment is to explain how all of this just seems imaginary.
*
And then I post an edition and I feel better. And if I throw myself back into work a half hour after cleaning up, maybe I'll be okay. I can do the isolation for a while while trying to clean up my life. Why let anyone else in?
"Except, you write all of this stuff down," says a voice somewhere in my brain.
And yes, I do. I do because I am human going through it, aware that previous versions of me have captured what they went through. On top of all of that is a sense I've been going through time and leaving remnants, many of which are so fragile.
I keep going with the career because it seems what I do know is what I've wanted to do all along and I often forget why.
*
Sometimes I do the work because I'm well-rested when the time comes. I am not always entirely sure how I feel. Not much of it really does anything for me anymore. I've become a ghost and look forward to sleep and oblivion every day now.
*
Soon.
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