It is easy for me to be hard on myself — a deeply ingrained response to failure and an acute refusal to take responsibility.

I forget — a lot of things, fine and important details about what happened. And it bothers me how much more quietly slips between the cracks.

Perhaps that is why I take notes and document, anxiously and furiously, the happenings, thoughts, ideas, phrases, letters for a future when my memory runs thin — as evidence that I existed even though just to myself. And so that as I revisit these documented vignettes, I will remember to gift that version of myself a bit more empathy and compassion for what he tried and failed at.

I took the time to take more care of my space. Over several weeks an accumulation of errands, showers, laundry, papers, happenings had moulded my room into a quiet mess. I took the time to clean my bathroom and iron my sheets, arrange my assortment of pants and t-shirts and took a long shower. I’ve always thought of organizing and cleaning as a chore to be done after everything else as an afterthought - when things get too messy or the clothes pile up. Perhaps its the rush from one thing to the next - and the way my room feels recedes into the background of work and friends and the life outside my room. In a sense, it’s an item in the backlog to be addressed at a later date. Yet, this space that I occupy has always been one that I can shape in my own way. And this little world that I occupy is filled with my books and written notes with my own taste and sensibilities and keep becoming deeply personal.

I want it to feel like a space that I admire and cherish and want to come home to. I want to fill it with love and tenderness as a deposit for when I’m lacking. I want the space to feel warm and hug me and a space I can rest deeply and wake up rejuvinated. I want to fill it with memory and hope.

Of late there’s been this overwhelming feeling that this is not it,
that I am on the edge of something I can’t quite make out.

And I wake up in waiting,
accumulating hungers, desires, losses,
as a distraction
and a means to carry me through the unease
of the here and now.

I walk in circles restless –
having acquired little sleep,
adding another thing to my oversaturated list of to-dos,
critically averse to having nothing to do,
but preparing for a moment that never arrives.

When everything, even music, is mass-produced, automated and easily reproducible, there's a lull that comes with having to choose one thing over the other. The choices blend together sometimes with surprising ease and little differentiability, and I become overwhelmed with having to pay attention to everything and nothing at the same time.

At times, I need to touch the thing I am making — whether that’s a physical thing or talking to the people who are impacted by my work — then I can understand its impermanence and fragility. My current field of work involves writing computer programs which do not decay, fade away, nor wither like plants into the earth. And perhaps that's why software, once adopted, becomes sticky and hard to let go; why work feels bloated with software for every single thing — messaging, writing code, video calling, planning sprints, testing, deploying, error tracking and so on, tacking onto my already-overwhelmed limited attention span. The trap I fall to sometimes is measuring my value by the lines of code and the features I ship. This measuring stick turns me into an engine for continuous production, plugging me into the never-ending machinery that is capitalism - always hungry for more of my time, my energy and my attention.

In attending Kokoroko's live performance in NYC, their music made me slow down and witness just how much they enjoy making music together. Being a black band from London, they weave together their individual personalities, tastes and passion for what they are creating together in such a tender and bold way. The members each adding a layer to the entire production that makes their performance fun and electric. I found myself in the moment slowing down, watching, swinging, singing - letting myself flow with the music, to each beat and lyric.

Of late, I have been trying to do more things with my hands and feet. Doing this has reminded me how limited my capacity is and I have to allot time and effort to getting done with what I need to or else I’ll over-extend myself. Submitting to the urge to want and have more eats away at the time for grounding activities such as going for a run, cooking a good meal, making something from scratch, feeling something in myself, surrounding myself with and enjoying being around people. The little ways in which I resist being totally sucked into a thing (whatever that may be), and allowing myself to seek out different interests, contexts and ideas matters; as it has taught me to have gratitude in where I am at this time.

This is my last night here in Kenya and I can't sleep. It's the tea.

I am leaving this home again for another one in a foreign land. Home has been the feeling of being a part of something - the hopes and dreams of people, the conversations I have, the new connections and reconnections, the endings and new beginnings. Home has been the way it feels to hug a friend, talk late into the night after closing hours, fumble on the phone for a ride home after a night out, do a spontaneous walk in the park, rage about a country, crotchet in a café, breathe in the misty morning, eat, take a nap and head out for the next thing. I have been stocking up these vignettes and sense my heart wrapping itself with them in a tight embrace.

The sweetness of these moments has been so palpable and refreshing that I want them to fuel my return. Yet, I know that these memories cannot do the work for me of making me feel at home again in a another land. I wish I could package up the smell my mother and all the idiosyncrasies of the being here for use at a later time when the sun is too hot or deceivingly cold that I need a pick me up. But I know that once I fly away, these memories will only just be nostalgic ornaments on a shelf. Sometimes I doubt that I am brave or creative enough to continue the work of world-building in a place that can at times feel very aloof to my existence. When life feels constricting or unexiting, I am tempted to then fold and replay the tapes in my head and sink into a ruminating spiral. Everything about this world-building feels like work that I want to come easier than it does. The dread of returning feels less acute when I remind myself that I have things to look forward to - my friends, a few shows to see, a shared apartment, the morning rituals and a city that has always more to offer.

I want to this body of mine to be present for the opportunities to keep (re)creating the feeling of home. To trust myself will be necessary in being bold with the life I have wherever I choose to be and I hope to do just that.

The feeling of being at home is something that I have been drawn to think about ever since I left home to adult. In small ways, I have had some version of a place to call home, have peeked into what home feels like and have had been periods when I have felt at home. These sensibilities have so far come through the unintentional shaping and moulding of them and in unpredictably random slices of time. More often than not, the sense of being at home has eluded me so adamantly over extended seasons that I gave up wanting to keep chasing them again and again. Yet, I find myself still mulling over the questions of (1) What do I want in a home? and (2) What would such a home feel like? Asking these questions has led me to take notice of the things that my eyes wander and get drawn towards whenever I am in any space - whether that is other people's, third spaces, institutional places or otherwise. I am more often now finding myself then able to lay down the brush strokes and pick the colors, draw the shapes and imagine the things I want in a home.

What I would want in a home is:

• big prominent mirrors almost two-thirds way the height of your walls

• ambient lighting from the array of lamps, bulbs and light strips allayed around the space

• a blanket that hugs you and that as you hold it tight threatens to drag you swiftly into an audacious satiating slumber

• a soft couch that takes up well-deserved space of that living room, assured in the personality it brings to the fore

• form and functionality of the shelves on the walls. The shelves add some book-stacking space and a bit more surface area to place some ornamental corner pieces composing of artfully shaped carvings and hefty chic decor

• color that pops from the pieces of adorning items, posters and art on the walls hung up mid-high that grab your attention and whisper to you asking you to glance at it again, and then let you go on with your doings

• chairs comfortable for your body to sink into and get lost in your thoughts or work such that when you snap out of that trance or flow-state, you get the feeling that you received more than you have given

• smooth mixed with slightly rough painted edges that fade and falter into each other from the irregularity of the paint-job that the handyman spruced up before you moved in

• fridge space ample enough for your erratic and rhythmic cooking habits

• an island that compliments the distance between the kitchen and the living room; melting adequately into that space; keeping itself very much needed through its regular use and also appreciated as a center-piece

• a sturdy gas stove that is sure of itself in handling the expansive work of feeding this body given to you

• cutlery that welcomes your use through the avalanche of feeding that they enable

• a comprehensive spice collection within reach while you realize the evening’s meal

• wooden floors that have acquired that middle-aged tender creak; that as they take you around the house and as you walk on them, you can't help but sense how kind they are to your feet

• doors that you join hands with you as you enter each space.

[An Evening]

In the bedroom, you slither out of your day clothes and, in a well-rehearsed sequence of moves, don into your homey fit, and into the laundry bag you down day's clothes onto the piling heap. In the bathroom, you begin slathering your hands with the earthy and gentle soap, building up a lather with enough consistency to beguile the day's oily layer on your skin that when rinsed, eases away leaving your face refreshed. You meld, into your skin some toner and moisturizer and proceed to unwrap the evening.

The music you put on corrals you to surrender to it. You dance in place getting entranced for a moment as your meal nears ready. You switch off the stove, serve tonight’s potion of food into the evenly-weighted plate and shift your weight towards the living room. Atop the oblong-wavy shaped coffee table you lay your plate on the mat. The table hugs your food, borrowing some of the heat and continues to hold the food in your stead throughout the night.

The movie you pick from your rolling list of movies to see and is one that you've waited for a night like this to finally indulge. Your television is just sizable and crispy enough to immerse you into the motion picture with sound that pushes you more and more into the world that you have chosen for tonight. The film comes to a part where you pause, float into the kitchen, fill a small bowl with Van Leeuwen's Cookies and Cream ice-cream, and in one fell swoop, shape-shift back under the blanket and press play to continue.

The film does a number on you and you let the credits roll as the closing score welcomes you gently back into this world. You look at your nearly emptied ice cream bowl, and swab the little scoopable lumps that might otherwise have escaped your consumption. The blanket is then folded, the TV turned off and the remote placed squarely close to the edge on the table. The plate and utensils land in the sink - a rest stop for the night before being proceeded into the dishwasher the next morning.

On the way to your room, you dim off the lights and the living room darkens to the encroaching moonlight silhouetting the space. You shut the bedroom door behind you. Only the soft light from a corner of your room remains. You dip into the bathroom, switch on the bright lights for the toothbrushing. With a few sips of water, you swoosh around the mix in your mouth then finish. You off the bathroom lights and pull the bathroom door to a nearly-closed state. From the side of the bed, you wiggle underneath the cooled sheets and blanket and form them into the shape of you. In stealing a glance at your phone you press play on a more matured version of Connective Tissue, and set a timer for an hour. The music weaves its threads and frees you to sink, so effortlessly into a deep and soulful sleep.

A personal goal of mine this year has been to see more live performances of artists I listen to — to experience the music. One of the interesting learnings has been noticing how my understanding and appreciation of the music changes through watching these artists perform. Seeing Bien live in Kenya at his 2023 December Blankets and Wine show was a taste of just how much excitement and emotion he is able to effortlessly bring out of his crowd. I must confess that I am a late-comer to his live shows but nonetheless, I was there last night where the crowd was gawd-damn loud and proud, immersed in what, I think so far, only Bien is able to do on stage that sets his show uniquely apart from other performers I have seen live.

For the show, I rummaged my wardrobe for something decent, picked out the socks to match the shoes, pressed a shirt that I didn’t end up wearing, but ending up with a fit I liked and felt good about going out. Sounds of Brazil, the venue of the scene is a cozy space tucked in a corner of Manhattan’s West Village. It is also a simple space that screams party-all-night-long!! with the bar and toilets easy to access and a dance floor where there’s no hiding.

Now living in a country where I don’t fit neatly into most spaces that I walk into, yesterday I felt at ease. The air in this city is thick with smells, sounds, mystery, allure and restlessness, but yesterday I was reminded that I can embrace more pockets of joy in the uncertainty. While I do the work of weaving together my own hopes and dreams with the help my mother’s prayers and lessons I carried with me from home, yesterday all this doing felt that bit easier to carry. More than anything, leaving and acknowledging my severance from the earth that birthed me has made me sad and drunk with nostalgia for a time when I was just a kid — wild and unapologetically curious. I yearn for the morning dew from those cold July months, for the sun that makes me sleepy and the rain that drums a beat on the roof throughout the night, for a familiar place I once knew so well but now feels distant and strange. At times when I get back from a visit home, I tuck away a snack I bought in some drawer in my apartment, eventually forgetting it and find it again months later, eat it gently on the couch, mostly always pausing what’s playing and sitting in the moment. The truth is that I do hunger for and desire connections — with people and places in a way that feels more real and permanent than the occasional trip or the long-distance relationships. These connections sometimes fade away or end and I find myself grieving the loss when I least expect. Yet, this desire can be at times paralyzing. I find myself craving the tiniest of scraps for a thing that can remind me of something I had. Last night, Bien gifted me, and most certainly others, a violent hope in building again and again what might have felt too bold and overwhelming.

Bien’s body of work is filled with mesmerizing and creative ways to love and to hope. Coming from a country that wants me to forget, he expands my capacity to dream beyond my own carefully constructed world. I find it hard to believe that him and I were raised in the same country because, while I am a mountain of doubt, he whispers so gingerly and then, with a boldness, belts out songs that encourage me to care more about everything that I am a part of.

For Bien, the crowd dances and teases him on. He obliges a thousand percent and gives us anthems we dance through in this world. He brings me into his imaginations, dreams, longings and dares me to have the courage to create out of the simple things I have, an expansive and wholesome life. And all of this, he beckons, is very much worth every second that I invest my time and energy into. Having left a country that wants me to forget, the concert reminded me that I desperately need to keep naturing my curiosity and love, even when I fall so hard that I don’t want to get up.

The party was wilding, following his lead to the every last lyric of his songs. That I know what Bien I will see on stage and what he brings out of the crowd is, I think, the most powerful aspect of the Bien experience. He will deliver and more. He has evolved most certainly beyond his music to the point that even before he steps on stage, most of the work is already done for him through just the anticipation of seeing him live.

Moreover, when he walks on stage, he is very personable, generous and tender, stopping mid-performance last night to sing a couple’s proposal and continue pouring into the hearts of those who have come to see him. This makes his performance feel dreamy — closing the distance between real and imagined, even if for those few hours when everything feels perfect. Bien doesn’t need to struggle to please the crowd, or work his way up and down a crescendo. The Bien concert sustains the energy and attention at maximum levels throughout. And we whole-heartedly dance our way through.

The house we never built lies with bricks lodged firmly into the earth
With clay hardening by the day
And weakening wood gathering termites.

The house we never built is filled with shadows and abandoned hope
Devoid of affection
Has become a stale, stunted idea.

The house we never built is burning with rage
Red and orange embers pile up
And leave a smoky, unfamiliar, darkened dream.

Let peace come
With the tears and the frustration;
With the yearning and the waiting.

Let forgiveness wedge its path
When the feeling of being crushed by what you did
Is the only comfort that promises relief.

Let grace become that warm embrace
That takes all that you are – the good and the bad
And reminds you again and again that you are worthy.

And I am awake in the middle of the night – able to fall asleep; seemingly unable to recover when I do wake up in the middle of the night. In my bed, alone, a dose of melatonin has the opposite effect of widening the gap between my body and an induced slumber.

I am drinking tea with milk – an acquired habit. I have had little patience for creative endeavors. Time is getting sucked into this deep void of endless repetitive and monotonous list of tasks, to-dos and routine. Newness feels old. And I am not giving myself permission to be enamored or inspired.

My tear ducts dried up a long time ago and I have found it tiring to sustain an emotion and let it wash over me. Rather, I have been craving the all-consuming, fierce, addictive emotional patterns that will drive me into a familiar euphoria.

I have lost the appetite for slow burns. Give it all to me – let me gorge and get drunk until I can have no more; until I become sick of it and move on to the next thing. This is perhaps how I have loved and how I am tempted to love again.

To sustain attention and desire over a long time requires me to not only know when to pull back and practice restraint, but to also feed my other desires outside of passion and romance, to nature and pay attention to and fight for them.

Sleep comes teasing me in
Mocking me in the middle of the night
Withholding from me its embrace
And I scroll and spend money I might have
On things I think I need
And continue lying there
Awaiting to be consumed
Only to get nowhere.

I live in a flat on the fringes of Bedford-Stuyvesant smack in the center of a gentrification wave that’s seemingly making its way deeper into Brooklyn’s soon to be formerly-black neighbourhoods. From our rooftop my roommate(rather flat-mate to be precise), notices that the high-rise in construction across the avenue has disseminated our view of the sunset. Cherry-blossoms now paint the city, accompanied by intermittent outbursts of late-spring T-shirt and short weather. The questions I reckon with at different moments feel immediate — ones of career, relationships, faith. I am beginning to avoid asking questions with an existenttial underbelly because they fall too far away from my daily lived experience of the mundaneness of being. Rather, being in the now and making plans to be with the people around and with me is where I’m finding more solid grounding and more exact answers to what I’m continuously asking.

On certain days, I’m drawn to think of my father whose internal world I barely knew but whose life’s work bore fruits through the people he influenced almost totally by his love for them. My mother, for one, speaks with much more deeper affection each time of him, I have a conversation with her. She unwraps the figure of a man that he was and paints some color, albeit through her eyes, the life that he lived fueled by the conviction he possessed about what to do and how to do things.

Nowadays, calls with my mother revolve around my curiosity about the person she was, the woman she is in the present and who she would like to become in the coming years. The distinction between the three, though, is rather mine and not hers. She herself ties all of them together in our conversations — seemingly indistinguishable. Time, as well, to her is presented as another dimension of her life — how it’s spent, the rote arrangement of each hour’s usage and the constant anxiety of it not being enough is not an exercise she employs in the same way I have been socialized. She experiences time move through her and with her, leading her to people and places that she cares most about. I admire her self-assurance, hope for my body to know that it will get to feel at home in this strange land and that I can continue define and redefine a space for it to occupy, around people that it feels safe, reassured and proud to be around. It has found some of that over the past couple of months, even though this work has only barely began.

Got that promotion I’ve been awaiting at work ☄️! Things are sort of looking up professionally. Yet, I feel so much unprepared to take more things on because it feels like much more is expected of me. Or rather, I’m expecting more from myself. I have only so much time and energy to spend and the past few weeks have left me with no more to spare. I want to make an impact at work, in the software development process, the developer communities, learn, teach, grow, build and share. This seems like so much to do, and above all that to do all of these well and to find joy in the process is something I want so desperately to mark my work. Work — I call it now but it feels like it wants to creep into the other parts of my life and consume with ferocity my inner lives — my relationships, hobbies, down time, simple pleasures.

Am I being asked to sacrifice planning to make a delicious meal and scrape by with instant ramen for dinner that tastes half as bad because I am on the last reserves of the day and cannot muster the energy to remember to add some green onions that would have slightly elevated the whole arrangement? Are my nocturnal dreams fading away because I end up thinking about the small problems at work that may not even improve the bottom line? I am frustrated and feeling defeated when I end up procrastinating on doing headed to the laundromat because it feels like that time could be better spent moving some imaginary needle? I am losing my love for reading, and barely writing even for myself. The days have galloped on and Spring is daring me to bask in its warming earth, to continue with the runs, to blossom. Impossible is what feels like when I let things fall.

Perhaps this is what growth feels like and I don’t like it. I have a multitude of fears and hopes all intertwined in me.

I am once again back to my childhood home. I have in mind a running list of to-dos – places I wanted to feel, people I wanted to remind myself of and pasts I wanted to resolve. It is now mother’s home, and she is ridding herself of collected memories – old unnecessary memorabilia from her former lives. Certain reminders of who she was, she keeps – the early 2000s IBM computer, textbooks, notes, photos, music. But the rest need to make way for more things yet to be hoarded. Father is still missing, and his absence is a thing I have not internalized in this house with the advance of days. His picture hangs in the corner with the largesse in his eyes, ever-greying beard, and slightly off-centered browning teeth. He hasn’t aged; is trapped in time in my mind.

            Under the tree I sit as the wind brushes my skin and an ant crawls up my foot. I have discovered an addiction to nostalgia – to the things of the past that seemingly reminded me of my former self. And perhaps that is why I felt the pull to make the trip back home and search for feels, the thrills and distorted recollections.

            My sister sits across from me under the shade at this local barbecue joint. She has aged since the last time I had a real good look at her. We poke at each other’s outer lives, attempting but hesitating to peek at what our inner lives really are. This jockeying to deeper knowing has been a theme all too present with my siblings as we deflect the conversations away from the much deeper layers of who they and I have been while apart.

            They offer me a drink at the club – an ad hoc mix of supposed exciters. I down it then chug some diluter. I am feeling myself getting looser but my feet are still heavy so my shoulders parlay with the music, attempting to sequence the beats. I shut my eyes as the decibels rise and fall and shapeshift between the genres and I find myself dancing with the crowd.

            Among my extended family, grandpa’s face runs ripe with muted rage when one of his own has had too much to drink. His reactions half-a-step slower. Visible enough are his plumping cheeks when his children burst out in song for him. I take out my phone and record, perhaps in fear, or anxiety of not knowing when I would see him rendered in his fullness again.

            I take in those cool morning dews, grab a bite of mother’s cooking, listen to newly discovered scores from the motherland, sink into a tropical slumber for I know not when I will once again yield to her call to come again.

Sweat riffs through the hazy Bombay night skies. The days have been filled with an emulsion of sounds — hooting scooters and hawkers running eerily close to their target clients carrying all sorts of goods as their feet drag across the pavements. Car horns fade in the distance and gel with the city’s heartbeat — a crying baby being soothed under the midday sun. A sweet and particular sensation overwhelms me while sipping hot chai — an acquired habit. I am reminded of the feeling of home and how it can be found being so far away from what I think it is. So many search for this sense of being a part of something — grand or minute. To lose this is maddening; finding it can be healing. One cannot lay in between for too long. Lest they be wripped apart. How aware is the soul of this dissonance? Unable to rest. This woman adorns the shadows of her past with her tender heart, wipes off tears with her soul only for her to seem to take it all in-stead without hesitation. She offers chai flavored with an aging smile and offers me to sit “dear son” — she beckons. In the distance the pigeons bathe in the water-filled tray layed out on the balcony, then fly away. Sunshine advances its inquisition into the corners until it reaches its limits on those unseen edges. We talk about the places we love, our pasts, present and indulge in things we share together. Her daughter colors the scene and tells me of lands far away, of her world here, offers to be a friend. We traverse this maze of a city. She occupies this space among her people with the language, ease of going to places I cannot fit, knowing. I think of where I have come from and the places I am going and my heart lifts. Goodbyes are easier when I know I will see them again.

[July] Paint falls of the ceiling of my room. Water leaked from it a couple of weeks back. It ruined the sense of unnoticeability about that part of my room. I stare at it more often as my eyes wander to that spot where the water seeped into the paint and soaked into the layers culminating in the paint giving in. The whole scenario formed an imperfect patch on the formerly white coat. I’ve had two books suffer a similar fate – water of some sort got into them while being transported in my bag – the result of which is noticeable if I don’t pay enough attention to the contents. These are fixable things – I can pack up and move to a different apartment and burn the books as an excuse to get new copies. This is, after all a consumer economy. This phrase – “consumer economy”, however, makes me want to keep less track of how much I am spending and click buy on that new set of pants. I’ve acquired a few thrifted pieces that I’ve wore all summer long. The acquisition of things is a thing I picked up from mother. Conversations with her have picked up again and I ask her about who she was when she was younger. There are things she tells me and details she omits. I read between the lines. Apparently, I was a violent child. That word – violence sticks with me.

[August] Fully awake at 2 am – pondering, gazing into the nothingness, becoming one with the night. Memories morph. I seek distraction from this endless void. Thunderclaps pierce the city skies. What is sleep that it taunts me? A Prayer: May the God of rest and peace grant me momentary reprieve. I am attempting to articulate my position on certain issues of concern to me to my friends and in various encounters. How do I feel about this and that is cause for others to lean in and widen their eyes. Again, I find myself mapping the social contexts I occupy – determined to seek patterns. How can one cross that invisible line between cultures – of idiosyncrasies in tongue and skin? I transmute into various forms; acquiring mannerisms that make me feel better about myself – in speech, dress, taste, ideology – to allow oneself to navigate spaces with ease, becoming something alien, unknown to my being. I am learning the language of assimilation.

[September] A man is an exorcised ghoul who wants, needs, doesn’t always get what he desires. Desire – a populated landscape that contains hidden crevices, uncharted territories. I am just a man who seeks absolution from my past. At times, I fail to identify the ways I am being cultured in the spaces I occupy. I’m picking up habits to pinch myself from this dream. Sleep gets interrupted. I’m awake again this early September night. Thinking about plenty of things — loving, living, longing – and approaching these with honesty. A gaze into the infinitely finite is to attempt to understand the fault lines that wreak havoc on the ordinary – the everyday normal, chasing highs to settle into. Ordinary is frightening. I’m running a lot more and have these episodes where having eaten a nice dinner, I still feel hungry, and I wonder what this means. My hair is growing and I’m giving it a bit more time before I get it retwisted. Fall is nigh.

Summer has been a season of attempting to stick to patterns and habits. I am writing this from Newburgh, a city that’s a little under two hours north of NYC — the first time I have been away from home this season. I run, pray, eat, work, socialize, sleep, repeat. My body is not used to this extended period of monotony. It’s craving and has been starved of chaos — that feeling of flight that comes when I run away from my fears, turn to past versions of myself that lurk, give in to my insecurities. Yet, the line between choosing truth versus fear has grown bolder so much so that I can see the person I am becoming when I choose to confront either path.

[Friday Aug 12th] Thunder claps rage and shove me awake. For the past few weeks, a few days a week, I have lost sleep. But today, as the rains fall, I sense that I am not the only one gazing into the darkness, pondering their sleep-interrupted. I have not been granted any reprieve from these bouts of insomnia. Perhaps I have grown so sensitive to the motivations of my being that’s causing this uneasy slumber.

[Tuesday Aug 8th] It’s mid-week and I’m prepping dinner. Distracted, the broccoli gets a little charred. I smell the greenery that were it to bake a little longer would begin to turn into ash and become fodder for whatever frustrations lie buried underneath. I have these elemental pursuits I needwant that drag me away from being present. Always looking ahead, thinking of the past while the present remains elusive. The mornings that follow episodes of losing sleep, I drag, don’t run but attempt so hard to get back to my ordinary schedule: heat water and to make pour-over Yemenese coffee, mix frozen berries, granola, yogurt, milk and et-cetera into a smoothie, place these on my work desk, wash my face, brush teeth and immerse my thoughts into the what I need to get done. Am I listening? To my body?

[Several days] My notes are erratic — thoughts parade with no clear thread. Some days I can feel myself get stronger and want to run more, to indulge and see how far my muscles can go before they break apart and wither. By testing, one may discern the will of the gods. Doubt creeps in at times, and I think I can compromise and stare into the sun. Can I evict this gaping hole or do I peek in? “O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” We desire the good things yet we pursue, with rage, again and again their destruction. Were I a wedge that defines the contours of uncertainty and mortality, I would traverse those curves and place my hope on those crevices — biding time; willing myself not to lose my grip. And what happens when I let go — what do I become?

[Today] This is the beginning of a week off of work, less rigorous running, a perhaps irregular eating schedule and letting go of expecting myself to complete tasks. The broccoli almost burnt because I was multi-tasking — rushing to contain the entirety of my desires within too short a window. The need to slow down is calling. Will I listen?