Wednesday, I think.

Waking in the dark - it's quiet inside and out. Asking the same question the poet did. Is this loneliness or freedom? Hungry. Let's get up, eh?

Bleak? Not quite. Bleak is blank with an emotion of some sort attached to it. I'm not doing that. My soul isn't draining away. It's just quiet. It doesn't hurt. 

Exchange messages with a friend moving south today. She has regrets. So do I, and a lot of what ifs too. I should have kissed her on the pier under the street light in the fog in accordance with my day dream. I wish her well. This thing we have to do here in this place is so hard. 

I listened to a clip of Henry talking after one of his spoken word shows. His voice is familiar. A remote presence in my life since my teen years. A one-sided friendship. Hearing his voice grounds me, lends me something familiar, pulls me out of this alien space. 

I wrote to him years ago. He wrote back recommending I read Hubert Selby Jr. and John Fante, which I did. Selby hurt me deeply. Some of the darkest and most tender writing I've ever read. Song of the Silent Snow - a collection of short stories was my starting point. Then it was Last Exit to Brooklyn. Unless you're ready for a real trip to Hell avoid The Room and Requiem for a Dream. He does it well and beautifully, but "bleak" is a sunny day picnic in the park compared to the places he takes you.  

Anyway, Henry said he still writes every day. Hearing that re-ignited a small spark in me to continue. Even if it's going nowhere. Continuing matters, though I can't always say why.

Taking my own advice, I go outside as the sun is beginning to rise to experience the morning air. This changes my mind immediately. My senses awaken. The gentle light, the scent of the leaves, the feel of the cool air on my face, the sound of a bird. Just get out the door. Just get out of the bed. Just get out of the room. Just get out of your head.