I need to learn some lesson from the last six months, something that I can take away with me, neatly packaged. A platitude. Or, maybe a novel I can beat together from the mess of complicated emotions that have plagued me. I need something concrete to be done or learned or made from this. But I am back here in this endless cycle, the self critique followed by the self-assuredness, followed by the tears and fight and hurt and anger and elation. A carousel of this and that, a pot pouri. None of it, nothing seems salvageable. I am a wreck of the different pieces of myself.
I will write a book, I tell you about it. I say it will be based on this and that and some of it things that have happened and some of it just some joke I made up for the sake of conversation, but it all seems possible. I will write this book and I will do it in your voice and it will be the best book, the one book, and for just a moment, conceptually, it seems like I could make something out of the muck of what has been.