It’s a little like masochism, this stress. Both consciously and unconsciously heaped upon me. These short hours of half-dreaming, half-suffering lend themselves to late nights and bad penmanship. My hair falls out and I go to sleep blind and stinging and way past exhausted.
Why can’t every culture adopt the Spanish way of life? The two o’clock siesta, the meandering pace of time. I could find every blessing of life behind my eyelids at two o’clock pm.
Maybe when life’s uncertain, maybe when we’re uncertain, staying busy keeps a daunting future in a little box.
However, no matter how many nights I spend memorizing, copying, and typing. I always feel better when I’m writing. Life just makes more sense flowing out of ballpoint.
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