When I was in college, I took my first art history course. I remember trudging halfway across campus to get there, only to discover that class was to be held in a very large, very old auditorium. When it started, the professor turned down the lights and we watched slide after slide on the big screen as we took notes in the dark.
I kept my notes for this first class, partly out of nostalgia, and partly out of sheer hysteria. Because the class was held in the dark, day after day of notes looked the same: legible and cohesive at the top, somewhat messy and nonsensical in the middle, and then, like lemmings to the sea, whatever scrawlings are left, they start running off the lines as if they were jumping into the sea. The reason for this, of course, was that I was starting to doze off in the dark, warm room.
This past month, On more than one occasion, I've sat at my computer trying desperately to type, but nearly asleep while I do so. Although my computer doesn't emulate words morphing into scrawl and heading south down the page, what it does do is record my conscious, semi-conscious, and nearly comatose state. Even in the privacy of my own home, there is nothing more embarrassing than reading through what I thought was a series of profound thoughts and discovering they are a combination of original thoughts, a mosh of whatever is on TV, and upcoming dream topics. Lately, the delete key has been my trusted friend.
I'm not sure why I've been so incredibly tired every time to sit down to write, except to say that I'm just that. I'm just really, really, really, really, really, really tired. But, just like my art history class, I love it here, so I'll continue to hunker down, snuggle up and sit down to write...even if large chunks more closely resemble an episode of The Twilight Zone.
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