This isn't the Sentence of the day but I feel like it may as well be.
First mornings are hell at the moment. I can't wake up without feeling like it's a drama because I hate the act so much.
I feel like my mornings should be spent in a completely different space, a space where I could spend a few hours slowly integrating my groggy self into society in the shade of a tree, holding a mug of cappuccino that stays a constant, perfect temperature.
Maybe then it would seem reasonable waking up. Maybe.
I also mourn my ability to write. I miss it. I miss it so much I want to cry and it's the only thing in the whole world that really makes me want to cry and that frustrates me at the moment. I have never, ever suffered from what seems to be almost a fear a writing and expressing myself. Every time I sit down in front of my keyboard I feel fragile and exposed.
It's not me.
I've found my will to write again, at least momentarily, and while I pray (this is how grim it's become, I'm resorting to prayer...
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