but I am a true over-thinker which is a polite term for vigilant that I am finding it terrible and difficult to hang on to a single thought to concentrate well in the manner if there's sunlight it were to shine on a coin in a street. blinding focus. I look away.
but as soon as I am left really alone, as happened on Saturday in a meeting room in a library, I begin to write the unhappy tale, the one that has been inside beaten down for all of the false honesty and smiles that persist and sell and will be here past myself ever existing to have worked as I did before, now, and later.
the unhappy tale is unhappy and not even me really wants to write what no one really wants to read. still, that is how far I have gotten.
reminds me that when I do sit at a piano I play a short song I wrote when I was nine years old. that musically was as far as I could go (parents divorced, piano was sold, no one looked to me to need the instrument).
won't take much I continue as I am for the end to appear crisp as a beginning. like seasons.