I am on a bus, going home. 9 pm, the daily commute. Throat dry, hungry, bitter with the day’s indignations. More immediate because Monday.
I have not written in a long time. I distinctly feel that I have forgotten to write, how it felt to write. I have frequently been too overwhelmed, or paralyzed to actually be able to write.
It is three years in advertising this month for me, a lifelong fascination, and these three years I have pursued it with a rigor I did not know about myself. Much of everything that used to be life has faded in the background and I believe I have become a different person in the deal. Bitter, for one. Unbelievably bitter. And depressed.
I need to write to hear myself. To mark the years. It is harrowing what is happening and I need to record my voice from the extinguished years.
I am not going to make it momentous. I am not going to craft it. I need to write.