Good Night, Moon.

I can’t.
My head hurts, and even though I want to be able to write something beautiful, all I can think about is how I’m tired, and how much work I have still to do this week, and how the insides of my eyes burn.

I hate it.
I feel like there was a time when I would sit down and words would just fall out of me and arrange themselves perfectly. These days, I spend my time sticking them together like magnetic poetry and hoping I have enough words for it to make sense.

I’m making myself write.
It’s hard for me to write when I feel like it’s not interesting to consume. What’s fun about knowing what I ate for lunch? What do you care if the skin on my feet is dry, or if I found a new hand cream I’ve been using as body butter? I’m not a teenage girl, and this is not a diary.

I have a diary.
And I don’t write in that either, which is a bit ironic since I’m definitely the only one reading that. I guess if I did more than work in a day, I might write stuff down in it. It’s become sort of a weird archive of lists of baby names I’ll never use, and occasional emotional breakdowns that are far too messy for the public sphere.

How do I end this?
Conclusions have always been awkward for me. Do I restate and rephrase everything I’ve previously written? Does it matter if what I’ve written comes wrapped neatly in a bow? What if I’m just done talking half way through a thought? I think that happens to all of us, but we force ourselves to push through to the end of it because, well, it’s what people expect. But when it comes to writing, the only expectations I ought to care about are my own…

I think.

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