I can feel it coming, although I’m dealing with it well this time. I’d like to think it’ll disappear if I close my eyes long enough, but it hasn’t yet. I am a carriage turning back into a pumpkin at midnight and it’s always very dark at midnight. All of this vigor, all of those smiles, all of that discipline is disintegrating. But isn’t there something to be said for a laborer that works very heard within his means? What a romantic notion! Doing what one can manage when one cannot manage a lot seems nearly heroic. Sometimes that sentiment propels me when I feel like I have no business in moving. Maybe there’s a sense of stubborn empowerment in working through fatigue, illness, or futility.

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Prose, Writing

What Will I Do with You?