The heater hums through a vent in my studio. Beckett is napping. I appreciate the quiet pause. The rain drizzles. A subtle throbbing pounds at the left side of my brain. I rub my neck. I pull on my gray cardigan. I rotate my foot right and then left. I take a swig of kombucha. The chair creaks. I think about travel, about flying, about freedom. I think about the ocean and keeping my eyes open under water. I think about a dream I had last night. Only pieces of this dream I can remember. It's fuzz. A man in red. A series of activities involving firewood. I think about my adrenal glands and whether or not they are functioning properly. I think about work and how I work too much, but not enough on stuff that matters. I think about how I am actively changing that pattern. I think about wild boars and the hawk I saw perched atop a street lamp this morning. It sat there calmly, awaiting something freshly dead or on its way to death. I think about dying and how I don't want to for a long, long time. I think about how ridiculous this want is. But I still want it. I think about forgetting things and remembering things and what my mind chooses to remember and forget. I think about some of the names I've forgotten and match those forgotten names to faces. Beckett is now awake. My heart pounds heavier. It's time to put on the clown suit. It's time to stay awake. I breathe.
