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Smell this, now do it again.
3/25/25 03:32 amThe tomorrow of yesterday is a goodbye, again. But I didn’t mark it (until now, writing backwards from the future) and now it feels like cold tea left on the table.
My witchcat’s 13th birthday is three months hence and also three days ago, and went largely unremarked aside from noting it here and there because it’s in my calendar.
When I do these runs of remembering to write things, it always gets a little confusing. Am I writing now, or am I pretending to write as the me of then might have, had I written at all.
But I am writing it. It might not be good, it might not make sense, but I’m pulling the words from my throat one at a time and pasting them to the page in an order that has some kind of precedent.
I wish I felt capable of poetry more often. It used to pour from me unbidden but now it feels like work. Fishing, and sometimes all you get is a boot.
My witchcat’s 13th birthday is three months hence and also three days ago, and went largely unremarked aside from noting it here and there because it’s in my calendar.
When I do these runs of remembering to write things, it always gets a little confusing. Am I writing now, or am I pretending to write as the me of then might have, had I written at all.
But I am writing it. It might not be good, it might not make sense, but I’m pulling the words from my throat one at a time and pasting them to the page in an order that has some kind of precedent.
I wish I felt capable of poetry more often. It used to pour from me unbidden but now it feels like work. Fishing, and sometimes all you get is a boot.
