We've had seven days of rain. I've drafted this Weekly three times over, and I keep circling back to this sentence, to this idea of a consistent something -- I feel like I've been on a train somewhere with a tired pace. Inside me there is a driving heaviness that has persisted for months. It would be a secret if I didn't write about it here. I laugh because things are funny, I smile for my "how are you's." Only Alistair can see how far away I am.
It makes no use to try and write about it because I don't know what I'm writing about. I'm tired. I'm tired when there's nothing to be tired from. I'm searching for a balance between two unknowns. A spinning arrow without a goal, therefore always missing it's mark.
We've had seven days of rain.
Last Sunday Alistair and I put on our jackets and took an umbrella to go to Times Square. My sister, the funniest person I know, was doing stand up for a charity fundraiser. I grew up in a "funny house". My parents were always dishing out digs. We had decade-long prank wars and for this reason, I still love a long con. It was good to laugh and see my sister in top form. (I would see live comedy on Wednesday as well, which means I've seen more live comedy this week than I have in my whole life.)
After Alistair and I had dinner at his apartment and lamented the upcoming week. It was all arbitrary to-dos, little gatherings I hoped I could fake myself through and then go home and have a good cry. It wasn't as easy as that, I'm afraid. I could get to the my apartment but the emotions weren't meeting me at the door.