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Writing this post tonight feels like a chore. I am suddenly exhausted and have been sitting here with my computer on my lap for the past few minutes, closing my eyes for longer and longer periods of time. Such that the past few minutes has now become the past several. I wonder vaguely if there is some pattern to the times when I want to avoid this, putting it off until the need to sleep supersedes my reluctance to post.

I felt more relaxed today. I was dimly aware of feeling guilty about not doing the work I should be doing, but it was easier to shrug and trust that it will all be okay. I think it helps that I have spent time with friends the past few days. I was sitting on a bench in a park with one of my dearest friends today and I just couldn’t be too worried about all the things I’m not doing. The truth is, I’m enjoying not working. Why do I feel so strongly like that shouldn’t be allowed? I don’t want to have to find a job right now. It’s a truth I keep avoiding, and I think it’s also pretty fucking obvious.

It’s odd the truths I keep from myself because I feel ashamed. I was walking my dog tonight when I suddenly realized I was smiling and that I felt alive. I had spent the prior hours on my couch immersed in a new story, and it was so strange to me to recognize this as the source of my aliveness. But the truth is, I love stories. I have always loved stories. They take me away from this life. They are my favorite place to hide. I’m not sure why I found it so surprising that they could be a source of aliveness for me. It was just suddenly there, in the smile on my face, and it made such good sense. Reading gives me such pleasure because it’s the closest thing I know to magic. It transports me someplace else and for a while, I get to live in a different world. I love it. I am on my third book today. I don’t know why there is currently a knot in my stomach telling me it’s not okay. Perhaps I just wish I didn’t want to escape quite so much. Perhaps I’m afraid it makes me a coward.