Man, from ages ago.

I have rekindled my love for sleeping late. It’s since been easy to find me by seven: in a fetal position tucked under thick sheets or, most of the time, stretched supinely on my back. For the first time in a long time I’ve found it most conducive for doing nothing or talking to someone, without the tears.

All but three pages of the red notebook I have torn: two years worth of writing which I am fortunate not to remember. Although, I have managed to keep my hate for waiting for the morning, still like to keep the lights off.

But, this is how I know the pain wasnt as sharp as it was once, twice, too many times.

There’d be times when you overdid it. You’d get carried away. All the next day, you’d be in a total fog, delirious, absent-minded, crossing the street and nearly getting run over.

Battle scars

"It’s not a race," they tell you.
But someone has to pull the trigger
And you’re expected to run.

This year was about being patient with myself.

I met the spirit that impressed on those who have gone before us the need to coin a word to stand for what we now know as “responsibility.”