“I’ll probably be up in fifteen minutes or so,” I say, and we both know this is a lie. I will still be here, in this chair, an hour from now, with a no-longer-hot cup of tea next to me — it’s too late for caffeine, but that’s never stopped me — typing words into any forum, venue, avenue that will have me, in some kind of helpless instinct to preserve myself through the language I leave behind.
I think some people fulfill this urge by having children. I do have children, but ever since I realized that they are wholly their own selves and only me insofar as my reflection in a rippling pond is me, I have felt the need for some other outlet.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I keep letting this particular outlet, this blog, die on the vine, to the point that I have to make support phone calls in order to retrieve it from whatever dark crevasse of the Internet it’s fallen into. Probably it just says that I’m lazy.
Or maybe that I should stop typing and get some damned sleep.