Dancing, alright.
I have learnt how to sleep two three four hours a night until there is no difference to me. Until it is seamless, my fatigue blending from one day's euphoria into the next. Fuzzy merging energy.
Last night I ran six miles panting through the heat because I needed to get somewhere and because I pretended the stars were too bright to ignore. Sluggish heat that would not part for my panting insistent presence.
At the gym next I have discovered how to push to a point and then beyond, slipping easily into a perfect pace; pushing pushing pushing. Treadmill to stairmaster to ab-crunching to bench pressing, and then again and then again. Cannot feel anything beyond my muscles straining and loud breathing.
And spending time with people, of course I can talk talk talk (charming). Can no longer tell the difference between desperate laughter or boisterous fun, so I slog on, louder and louder. Cannot hear worrisome or true or evaluating thoughts. Cannot stop to wonder whether they even exist.
And of course it is good. It is all good, but it is only as good for me as the time it fills. It is only as necessary as the weariness it creates, self-fulfilled righteous fatigue that will allow me to sleep deep and thoughtless when I decide to let go.
Am keeping my days full.
Am keeping the surface calm.
Have been wound up so tightly I will spin and I will spin and I will spin for you, faster and faster and faster into a brilliant painful blur
.
.
not thinking
.
.
quiet dancing desperation