I’ve made it past the two-thirds mark for April. Some days I really struggle with new words, and I’m feeling like there’s a shadow of glumness that hovers over most of them. My inner child is now and has long been so very emo, but I also feel like I’m turning a corner.

Therapy? sings: “Happy people have no stories.” I fret that that means I’m doomed to glumness if I want to have stories, but just because some Irish punk rocker has an opinion about the drama of the world, something he likely got from reading too much Russian and French Existentialist literature, that doesn’t mean it’s true.

No offense to Andy Cairns, of course. He’s been far more commercially successful than I am, so I do think he’s likely on to something. Just, you know, saying.

Anyway, I feel like my daily pieces have threads running through them but at the same time are disconnected, and in a way they’re feeling redundant, like it’s time to start crocheting them together. I don’t know, though, I’m also worried that if I stop with the daily infusions of stream-of-consciousness, I’ll throw my hands up entirely.

I will have faith in the process for now. It’s only nine more days.

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