This day, unlike others before (except yesterday), showed much
less promise than possibility. I succumbed to my inner rhythm,
inconsistent and less palpable than days previous, doing slightly
more than nothing of consequence. Productivity can be such an
immeasurable notion, and one I do not feel today (slightly less
than yesterday). After the fact, I find it far less distressing than
depressive. I can only concern myself with what will become of
this restless, repressive malady, neither curious nor causative. I
fumbled my way through today, and likely will tomorrow. My
ever-present tension: present tense. The past comes rushing back.
Deadlines mean so little when you’re not paying attention to time.
© 2023 j.g. lewis