It’s late. I’m tired. But I have this daily task to complete.
It’s one of those nights when it feels like a “have to” rather than a “want to.”
But as soon as the words start flowing I don’t regret stalling the bedtime routine ten little minutes.
It’s late. I’m tired.
This has been a long day. A hard one. I’m disheartened by our politicians playing with people’s health in order to win points. I am more than slightly nauseous (or, nauseated, as the grammatical case may be) over the future of our country. I can normally find good somewhere, but tonight it seems far away.
I also don’t like what it brings out in people—so many internet trolls and snarky comments. It is rare to find civility.
It’s late. I’m tired.
I am feeling bombarded, by the news, by work requests, by social invitations. I’m finding it more and more difficult to make simple decisions. It feels more and more difficult to curate my own life rather than float along on the sea of information and social media and regular media and input, input, input.
It’s late. I’m tired.
It’s been seven minutes. My brain feels fuzzy. Bed is calling my name. I need to unplug and get some sleep.
But I’m glad I got this out into the world instead of keeping it hostage inside my brain.
Eight.
Goodnight.
Bank of Erin 