Blocked

It's 8:10 p.m. I've written and erased the first paragraph of this entry a dozen times now. Doesn't really matter, because I'm at an empty office with the fun and exciting(!) prospect of going home to an empty house.

So, Kate, what's on your mind? Why can't you just write the damn entry and go home? I don't know. I can't clear my thoughts. Now it's 8:38. I'm still here. It feels like the beginning of the end, tonight. I don't know. It's that feeling of pushing your tongue to the roof of your mouth to keep from vomiting. And I haven't felt it with this much regularity since Rompy was around. We don't talk about that now, not even here. And that's not the only thing that's locked up away from you guys in hopes that someday it will dissipate instead of fester.

That's it. I'm sorry. I'm having trouble forgetting. I want to go to Old Poplar, lay out under the stars and pretend that once again the Leonids are racing and erasing across the sky, tumbling in and out of view.

But these days, all that twinkles just out of reach are pieces of the past rising from the mist -- an image here, a feeling there. Like a dream, through the benzo haze, shivers and pangs. The hairs on my arm standing on end.

I wish I were Thessaly. She'd know what to do. I'm sorry.

::sighs:: It's 9 p.m. Might as well head for home.