Has all the time gone?
The floating, glorious thing only ever moving in one direction that after a couple of decades on this planet, I'm still not properly adapted to. I've come to think that it's movement that confuses the balance of time; moving faster and further than we are really designed to, moving more frequently than our hearts can bear. And pieces of us humans seem to naturally need different paces—the body can deal with much, fast, often. But the mind takes longer to adjust, longer to process and in my case frequently catches up in a sluggish, wayward manner.
I've come back here and noticed that the last blog post was August 1st, which doesn't even make a mark in my mind as being important or noteworthy but yet there it is, a photo of my city that I must have been compelled to take as some point on a Monday evening.
Head heaviness and some hot weather has me feeling not entirely prepared for the publication of the second book, but then I remember that the work is mostly done, that it was researched and illustrated months and months ago, and that now I must turn my mind to the discussion of it, the making-it-known of it. I also try to remember that it's probably impossible to feel prepared for something like this. The fact that I've been through the process once doesn't seem to matter in the slightest; that time is already underneath layers and layers of earth, of rock and silt and watery experiences that I don't always remember accurately.
It's an almost sick feeling, an excited swaying feeling that I cannot quite pin down in words. So if I ever seem to be lacking in enthusiasm or excitement forgive me; I am an internal kind of creature and have found it suits best to adjust my level of euphoria based on the reactions of other people.
And now, I'm going to try and frantically claw back some hours of work that were sacrificed happily to ensure family and sun and just doing nothingness this past week or so.