journal entry — Saturday, June 7th 2025
If I could read Jane Eyre, maybe it would be okay. Should we see if Molly is free? Should I braid my hair and put on jeans? I have the kind of headache that’s endemic to lying in bed, being tired but waking up to gray earring morning light that used to make me so happy but no longer can, like most things. My one eye is closed, pressed against the pillow, and I’m overheating, as always, and I have retail guilt, buyer’s remorse, for everything in my life and where does the truth live? Does it live in the words that know the rarity of their own presence, know how we yearn to formulate them well enough to describe something eternal and transient?
The Dilemma Of It All 