Good morning,
Here is my January 2025 face, and here is a post in which I take a deep dive into my poetry at 4am, or rather tear my own poetry to pieces trying to find the reason I wrote it. Warning: This post contains many swear words. This isn’t normal, but then nothing feels normal right now.
I should be sleeping, resting, dreaming, recovering, processing, but there is too much to think, too much to do, too much to get done, and tomorrow bangs away on her drum, I am here, writing this, tomorrow…
Everything hurts.
And tomorrow is here. I am very worried about this, tomorrow. Anxious. My belly hurts. Tomorrow is screaming, loud and shrill, she says, I am tomorrow and I am here now and there is no turning back.
Now here comes another four years of complete and utter world fuckery.
Terrible feeling this. The sensation of not being ready for tomorrow, not well equipped enough, strong enough, organised enough, neat and savvy and fast enough, for tomorrow, for the cruel and mean tomorrow, this peak racist and sexist tomorrow, this broken tomorrow. We live in the future now, tomorrow is here, she is yelling for passwords nobody can remember.
