I'm forcing my fingers to play the tune of creation against this laptop keyboard, occasionally rubbing my palms up and over my face as if I could wipe away the weariness. I'm tired and it's early, and it's my first free night alone in a while, in my god awful room, behind these god awful four walls. Save for a few half hearted notes during breaks I haven't written my books in over fortnight...I'm already sinking into a glazed-eyed, monotone sound of a heartbeat, thumping like an engine, just running but there's no one driving off down a long un-travelled road-The driver has passed out, having inhaled ten minutes of the fumes that recoil against the four walls and curl in through the open car windows.
I'm so ridiculously tired, but it's not exhaustion, it can't be....it's more that I'm tired because it's difficult not to just slip into a coma of sleep and waste the remainder of the week away as quickly as possible until the weekend...when I come alive again.
It's certainly no excuse to have not written in the last passing weeks, no excuse at all. I've let that disappointment and anger push away Grace and that's not right.
Grace, I made a note about your story the other day. A good one. Such a slow progress, we've been together on and off for the last...?... nearly 7 years. But your story unfolds like the pages of a very old, very secret diary...I can't rush through it because the pages might crumble and all will be lost, I have to trawl through gently, letting the truth come out to me when it's ready.
We have a plan, my heart, it's keeper and I...we have a plan that seems very far out of reach right now but its there, waiting for us to catch up with it. It keeps me awake, in a world where sleep seems to be the most enticing place to be.
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