Mixed metaphors
Once I get started, writing is like swimming, which is like flying. But I have to get started. Dive in. Lift off.
This fancy keyboard is a dream: backlit mechanical staccato click click click. I'm writing this from my office downtown, with the fancy dimmer lights and couch and space age bendy chair that's worth more than my car. The standing desk hisses with hidden hydraulics, up and down. I get free coffee. Nobody bothers me about vaping in my office (I know its disgusting but I'm making a point here). I'm given anything I could ever want to be productive. And still, after all these years, I don't want to write what I am supposed to.
75 days sober. I'm certain I've never had such a stretch in my entire adult life, which is coincidentally the length of this livejournal.
Reading through old entries, I can see the signs:
~ romanticizing substance misuse then wondering why I have mental health problems
~long stretches of silence followed by bursts of mania
~naiveté and bright eyed ramblings of a manic pixie dream child
~shadowy cryptic mutters of an existential egotistical burnt out academic
75 days of struggling, learning, yapping. 75 days of rest, stillness, uncertainty. A whole life of possibility. Grateful to be alive. Thank you to everyone who helped me get sober.