the elusive disaster

"I wrote a lot of trash last year. I'm still trying to learn how to write."
-KLS, 8/28/06

Only today did I really realize how strong my hands are. Riddled with veins, my fingers sit on the end of my short palms like thick stumps, waiting to kill something barehanded, or at best pull back a bowstring or weild a machete. In truth, they are covered in oil, stroking soft skin, carefully holding sheaves of words bound on paper, or restraining the vibration of a thin string. Who knew so much force was necessary for such delicate tasks.

I'm so tired. Exhausted, really- working as much as I have has crept up on me gradually, until it seems that no matter how much I sleep, it's never enough. Most of the problem is that I can't sleep, or when I do I wake up all the time... much to my amazement the last couple of days, I woke up alone after a sleepover, and had no idea when the other person left. It's like magic.

Chris said it best today at work when he said he feels like a lot is going on inside, and that he just needs some sort of epiphany to work it all out. I like that word. I like thinking about words, and what they really mean, and then applying it to every context in which they are used- Chris needed a little visit to a baby saviour in his head to make everything make sense.

I guess I do, too.