What I wrote yesterday might seem stark and depressing; and it's true, last week was a tough one, and the post is partly a reflection of that. But it's not so bad to compare oneself to a dilapidated street, or to feel exhausted ninety percent of the time. Perhaps that's because things are starting to get a little easier. Or perhaps my tolerance for physical exhaustion is increasing.
The main reason I can tolerate it, I suspect, is the daily infusion of joy I'm also receiving.
If my life lacks something, it's that occasional long afternoon reading and writing and dreaming and sipping a cappuccino in a cafe somewhere. I admit a fondness for that particular form of sloth.
Writers are idlers by nature, let's face it. Without a certain amount of time every day to twiddle our thumbs and stare into space, or to read widely and without too much concentration, we tend to produce forced, unimaginative thoughts. My substitute for sitting in a cafe reading and writing has been, over the last six months, to take my baby for a stroll in a "lost" part of San Francisco. Recently, i.e. during the last couple of weeks, it's been a challenge to find the time even for that. I've got to reintroduce some form of getting lost into my daily routine.
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