in writing i most often take small, beautiful moments and re-illuminate them, find something in them. i am finding little to love about these long weeks.

i wake up too early every day, go to bed too late, the insides of me ticking with a pace that doesn't belong to this world any more. last year i'd have used the energy. this year it sits inside my body, coiling up and pushing at the edges of my self-image.

who am i when i am not productive? i wish this question was not so unsettling.

in the beginning i saw those memes about "take the opportunity to sit still," "reconnect," "nature is healing and can heal you," you all saw the white women posting them. aside from the poor timing, aside from the poor grammar and graphics, the forced recognition of personal space, pace, and load has not been welcome.

what's the point of finally being able to sit with how queer i am, how tired i am, how focused i am, how independent i am? there is nowhere to go with that knowledge, no access point to community or solidarity that would make me feel better about the kind of odd beast i have turned into.

to look back at my first writings in the quarantine, i already predicted my own outcome: that i will remain sunk in swirling doubts and needs and pressures (this is a feature of the environment i choose, not a bug), all the while knowing there is nothing to be done but wait, and be still in the center of it.