Right now, there are words I want to write here. And yet, even though there’s barely an audience for this place (and thank heavens for that), I don’t dare.
But I don’t dare to write the words to myself, either, to step away and put them down in a notebook or a text file, for fear they’ll turn against me and spit in my face.
And so. Here I am. And so. I don’t know what to do with the words. And so.
(I didn’t mean to use the phrase “And so” — it has connotations from the tumultuous past for me, even though the connotation was written “and so”, defiantly lowercase, when I first glimpsed it many years ago. As for me, I’ve gone by many different names as I attempted to live lives other than this one — half of which I now forget. I still don’t use my real name here, even though most now know it, for fear of being too easily discovered. I wouldn’t expect concern, more derision and dismissiveness.)
I want this long weekend to be over. I loathe bank holiday weekends even more than the standard two-day variety. They seem interminable.
Maybe I should try and sleep. I should, yes. I should try and sleep.