I'm in the shade under patio fans. What's a wonder to me is how everything can change in a year. It's in the summer breeze, these things. This wondering. I smell women on the wind again. I get anxious, my heart races, like I've woken up again to the same old and I've just been dreaming this whole time. All of it. For a fortnight, a long spell, maybe more.
Looking back, I surprise myself. I'm a better man than I thought I was. I'm capable of more than this, this present state. I've been biting at the bit for some time now. The frustration swells and floods over weekly. It's palpable, this yolk. There's a physicality to it.
I want to write so bad that I can't contain myself sometimes. I yell, "Fuck!" and punch something just walking down the street because I know now what focus it takes, this writing, and right now I don't have it. I can't spare it with everything else right now.
It's maddening to know that something so intangible as focus can be so finite. Even now,
fuck. I wish for September and the patience to see me through this month. I pray for the day when I wake up and school is no longer the looming thunderhead in my mind.
Like a bull in the paddocks,
what comes next will be prolific.
My hand hurts.
It's not used to writing this much.
It's not as tight as it used to be.
That's all going to change soon.
Remember it's a muscle
(this writing)
The strength of it,
it's power comes from exercise.
