The Days Are Long

Last weekend was three days long. Two plus the Monday off for Dr. King day. Andrew and I stayed in and were together. It was phenomenal. It was a day like I wish we had all the time, but that we hardly ever have. Monday through Thursday I don't even see him. We get home from work and say hello and fall asleep. Or, we get home from work and I prattle to release the day's stresses and he listens patiently while he loads laundry and heats up our leftovers and I follow him around the house talking. Then he tells me a few details of his day, when he feels like it, and then we fall asleep. Or he falls asleep and I come to smoke cigarettes in my office and write, or try to write, or putter around.

The work days are so long and so tiring. I get so wrapped up in it when I'm working hard and I burn out. So I'll step back to catch my breath and I feel much more relaxed. Then I realize I've fallen behind and I scramble to catch up and then I'm back in the same rattled place. The office is such a strange place to be. I got to work this morning after my endless commute and sat down at my desk and took a deep breath and said to myself, well I'm here now. And then I dove in. Just like that. Well, I guess I'm here so I'll do what one does in the office. I'll work. And then I drag it all home with me. The office can be a fine place to be. My coworkers are funny and I like most of them. There's laughter and relating and many human moments. That's what makes it bearable, I suppose.

I want to write. I want to write so badly. But I'm tired. I come home and I just want to relax and do something to take myself out of my swarming head, and so I don't write. I don't write.

It's a strange thing to not know what's next in one's life. I've always been somewhat clear on what's next. When I was a kid, the next thing was getting out of my parent's house. When I was in boarding school the next thing was just getting the hell out of there. When I was out of there, my next thing was going to college. After college there was a period of I don't know, but that ended and I came back to New York. The next thing then was moving out of the Bronx and developing a career. Done and done. Now what?

Often all I want to do is lay in bed with Andrew and be near him and hear what he thinks about things. I want to do that and I want to write. And I don't get to do much of either. And I don't know how to make those things happen. I'm tired and the days are long and I'm bored. Someone said I seem flat. And that's exactly how I feel. Flat.