Either way, I'll just carry on, and there's really no need to worry, the shape of my emotional landscape has been shaped into something that lets go of something good before it's even over, following the pattern of my experiences. It's a colder place than where I've been before, but it seems to be necessary if I am to get any rest. And it is rest, here and now, even though there is more life and buzzing in me than before. That is expected, at least by me, because we are alive, it is in our being to be in and with and participating.

And so it seems I have made at least one more step against whatever resistance or heaviness is in me, which would be easier to combat if I could take a hammer to it, rather than doubting its existence at all. The question "who is my enemy" has arisen and been without answer so many times that all that's really left is the restlessness that comes of not having something to fight. And yet the fight remains. (I'd call that a paradox, but not really - there are other, much more disruptive of those.) Waking up to myself, like clawing to the surface, feels like all but might only be part of it.  I still don't know where my isolation is.

I'm not at all sure what this writing project is becoming. I'm merely glad it's not dead yet. Alive, instead, which is what I'd hoped and supposed I would find in it, even if just on the inside.