30
I lay awake, sinking into the typical nightly routine. Thoughts. Scrambled. Different streams that intermingle and grow muddy. Even though my thinking has always been manic, I used to be so disciplined. I could direct my focus. But either my brain doesn’t have the same capacity it used to, or I have much more to try to keep ordered, or it’s a combination of both and all that remains is a tired sort of anarchy. I used to think lots more about my writing. That would override everything else. Narrative would write itself in my head. But that voice is softer now. Or perhaps it’s not as insistent, or zealous.…
Sixteen
Most days, I’ll walk to work, which takes about twenty-five minutes. I’ll follow a roundabout route home to add another ten or fifteen minutes to the walk. Being unable to run and limited with what I can do due to the damage to my right leg, walking’s one of the few things I can do as exercise. It also helps to spend some physical energy. Getting to sleep is never easy, but it’s always harder on days I don’t walk. Like many writers, I’m a tea-drinker. The schedule at work is regimented: it’ll usually be three throughout the workday (two in the morning, and one in the afternoon). Once I…