There is a certain sadness for me, here, in Florida. I wake up to someone screaming just outside my doors, which do not close. Every morning I wake up.
I eat something tasteless, more or less. There is a certain hopelessness in my mother.
I go on the porch where the branches are overtaking the lanai and I listen to the birds sing. All sorts of birds, all sorts of songs, woodpeckers, even.
I sit there with my laptop open and I force myself to do some sort of work. I listen to music. I go to the gym when it is time to go. I drink coffee and Gatorate and local citrus juices. I take off my clothes and tan when the sun is out.
But there is certain sadness and heaviness in all I do, on the outside. On the inside I am crumbling and boiling and burning, and breaking and rebuilding.
I am alone here. Marinating in something entirely artificial. Everything I do is not out of necessity, but rather to appear as if I have something to do.
And I know it’s all a matter of shaking this off me. I think.