The truth is that I did write yesterday, for about two hours, but it was on an essay that I am planning to submit to an online publication, and by the time I finished I did not remember to do my daily blog entry in addition. It was a little after midnight, the house was quiet, the night was dark, the air cool. I wanted to eat some cake or ice cream but we didn't have cake and the ice cream was old. I threw it away, and stood in the kitchen with Eric, barefoot, snacking on pieces of fried catfish his mother made earlier that day.
The truth is that I am always hungry, and I wake up in the morning too tired to stand up, but I do, because I have to, and eventually the weakness dissipates from my limbs and I am able to slip into the mundanity of daily life: shower, teeth, vitamins, keys, 5 train.
The truth is that I have to relish every spare moment I have to breathe, to sleep, to eat, because this new life is a relentless push to a finish line that I cannot see but can feel stretching beneath my feet, slowly, quickly, further and further.