2/6/14. Taking day to Self, for morrow. Not stating agenda here, as that’d only cheapen, jinx. Hear light rain outside. Me, with a FULL glass of this ’09 Cab-cornered blend I picked up yesterday, on a tasting mission with co-worker. Relaxed. Table in kitchen nook, moving with every key punch, frustrating me. Don’t think I’ve forgotten my own office, reader! Tomorrow, I’ll center Self in one stop: 12 & Mission, coffee spot. Will pack as I do every morning, before taking Jack to Ms. Lisa’s. And I’ll imprison Self there till at least 12p. Thinking I’ll walk through their doors at around 8:20-something.. so why not 12:30, then…
TV off. Need quiet, after such an uneventful day. Tomorrow, to be the most significant of events. My story takes a climatic turn into my ultimate vision. And I think of the students, as I set certain marks for the morrow’s MSS. Read an anti Self-publishing article the other day. Not sure why I’m letting it get to me. Need to just drink my blend, listen to this rain, and look forward to my day to Self.
9:59PM. Headed to bed in about 25 minutes. Need to close this chapter– Just noticing I always speak in that yoke. I’m not trying to shed my poetic proclivity, I just love stories, telling them. So what do I do, reader? I want to write poems, but I think I may more so wish to wheel tales. Can I do both? Feel like I need to dedicate my life to something… That’s crazy. Don’t think like that.
What would my writer friend do?
Should ask her.
After those two sips, I’m feeling little–well, no–discomfort, angst, anxiety. Need music.
He listened. Didn’t sip, just stillness. What he needed. She would have probably done the same. She was busier, with all her studies, then shifts. But he blanked his perception. Only introspection. It was selfish, yes. But he needed that. One night, for him. The drops had a weird BPM, one he tried to follow with verse. So he sipped in his secluded scriptorium.