The 38-year-old brain

More writing today, and my apologies for the self-indulgent posts. Too much of life in one day, somehow, and so my 38-year-old brain shut off mid-afternoon. Couldn’t try to study at the cafe where I was sitting — I’ve learned I can’t study in public with hipsters singing Eddie Money and making chai lattes — and couldn’t shake the feeling that while I can work and work and work, it’s still just humanness I’m wearing at the end of the day. Plain Jane, burning-rice-on-the-stove, humanness.


Here’s me and all of us, carrying the thing we carry, a devil behind, the moon beyond. What dreams stand to be gained? What histories whisper to us to stop, and weep?


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