Rough night last night. Fell asleep on the couch and woke up around two a.m. I think. Did a bit of computerizing, then went to bed. But I couldn’t fall asleep.
After writing so much these past few week, I came to feel like a sinner. As if I were abusing the weight and purpose of language in diatribe and half-baked ideas. Flaunting words like feathery fans without substance, unaware or unwilling to seek their real value and import.
I, who will not put so much as my name in a book to deface it, will write copious notes rather than highlight a text, toss words like confetti into the air, and they take flight or land in the dirt.
Unresolved, fretful, I fell into sleep, and woke up still somber this morning.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology