The problem with working from home is that you’re never really off. There’s always something you can be doing, so it’s hard to detach and just relax. The days of the week lose their meaning. I haven’t had a vacation in about a year, and I’ve been at home almost that whole time. It’s left me feeling burned out. Lisa and I are both going through the same thing at this point in our lives, and we’re trying to figure out how to pick ourselves up from problems that seem insurmountable when we’re living them by ourselves.
But baby steps first, and today was back to a greasy breakfast. I watched The English Patient, cause I’ve been in the mood for epics lately, and I’d been denying myself the pleasure for too long. I discovered the part I used to place my kisses is called the suprasternal notch. Now I wonder if she ever sees the English Patient, whether she’ll think I just stole some idea from some movie, or whether she’ll remember and gently finger the valley my lips claimed as their own.
At the end of these movies, I always feel a mixture of emotions, the same when stepping out of the Shakespearean plays I saw in high school: dejected from all the tragedy, yet amazed by such profound performances and productions. It was the same after I finished reading Doctor Zhivago. Maybe cause I identify with the poet-warriors, the themes of their love, the depths of their emotions, and the trappings of their fate. No matter what the emotion is though, it makes me sit in the dark and write about things the way I used to.
And that’s enough for now.