Couldn't resist the cliché.
Eating a big meal, an unusual schedule, much on my mind— whatever the reason, I'm staring at the ceiling. Nothing to write either, really. May need to find something to do until I tire. The quiet isn't quite as comfortable as it has sometimes been.
But I haven't stopped being thankful.
At the office, trying to stay busy and sane, failing at both. Trudging in was a slow blur. Have to concentrate to stay on any task, and it's still not enough. I probably won't stay long (we're closed, but I have things to do— if I'm not able to do them, I might as well be home).
The words aren't mine, but they're mine.
So tired, but afraid to sleep. I don't know where I'll go.
I don't know how I can do this.
I remind myself of the principles of medical triage: when faced with critically wounded patients, a doctor must choose the course that assures the greatest chance of survival for the most patients. Sometimes you can't save each one, and to try would result in the unnecessary loss of all. It's a tough call, but a right one.
Reminding myself isn't doing a damn bit of good.
I grieved when I lost Jodi. But it wasn't like this. The number one slot for the hardest thing I've ever had to face is now filled. There are harder goodbyes. And I can't bring myself to do anything but save the wine. I can't forget.
Want to do anything but what I'm doing. Picked up the phone more times than I can count. Trying to learn what love requires.
"My shoes are too tight."
"Something my father said. He was old, very old at the time. I went into his room and he was sitting alone in the dark, crying. So I asked him what was wrong and he said, 'My shoes are too tight, but it doesn't matter, because I have forgotten how to dance.' I never understood what that meant until now. My shoes are too tight and I have forgotten how to dance."
—Londo Mollari, to Vir Cotto (Babylon 5, "The War Prayer")
I don't know what to do. So I'm just here.