Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He hasn’t written an entry for a while that is not to say that nothing has happened for a while things have kept happening with monotonous regularity like the rhythmic beat of the train across tracks. He is in the confused throes of a romantic interlude. He met a woman a year ago and then there was some confusion as to how one defines separation and divorce so he promised not to contact her until he was divorced. So he did that and now he thinks that a year was probably too long and that he left it too long so that his romantic yearnings have yet again got the better of him and he has created a mental fugue that he cannot escape from and created a fiction and now he feels like a stalker yet again so he has to scale back his advances because it seems that this beautiful elfin woman is attached but to whom and how seriously he does not know but he cannot again like he did before turn wooing into stalking. He is irritated that his yoga studio has cancelled evening classes. He can now only go to the 6am class. He has yet to wake up in time to get to this 6am class. It is very early to do yoga. He will try again tomorrow. He goes for a run and it nearly kills him it doesn’t nearly kill him he was nowhere near to death at any point during that run he is lying ot himself and being needlessly dramatic and he enjoyed the run the weather was good and his muscles felt tight as he ran and after they felt supple and he warmed down and stroked his legs and he enjoyed the endorphins and he will certainly run again and he wonders why he has not been running more but he knows the reason he prefers not to run and to read and to think and to sleep and to ponder and to do any other number of things that he finds equally or more interesting but he will still run more now that he has taken the opportunity to rediscover it. He calls the woman and it is a confusing conversation. He thinks that she is pleased to hear from her but he is not sure. Then he calls later as she requested but it goes through to voicemail. He will see what happens tomorrow. He goes to sleep.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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