Day 67

Inertia. It's so easy for me to visualize it as a creature with a life of its own. It's on me all day. What created this weighty, sluggish thing? The most simple explanation being the most likely, lack of good sleep for several days in a row. That would/could and probably did conjure this particular demon.
As I type this I realized I have sawdust on my sleeve. It clings to my apron, is probably in my hair and, now that I think of it, I've likely left a trail like crumbs from the shop to here. Am I afraid I won't find my way back?

Right. How much of a hold can inertia have on me if I've just sanded something? Plenty, coming from someone who usually rides on rockets, zipping dangerously around corners balancing a tray of poppets like colorful canapes.

I want that back.

Now I walk into a room forgetting why I'm there.

I'm going to start with sleep. So basic. A part of the foundation, the body, the brain. Every living thing on this planet linked to its cycle. Until I fix that, there's no point in considering anything else.

I must sleep tonight. And the next and the next. Eventually, I'll get myself back to that place of golden fields, wide roads and azure skies. The wind is cold there and smells like coriander and saffron. That place I've possibly been avoiding because there's also the metallic tang of fear.

I don't know. Maybe it doesn't exist. But I won't know unless I sleep. And I won't make much art either, because to do that, I need a brain that's not sleep-starved.


Silly human.


g'night