This is one of my favorite times of year around here. It’s gray. I would prefer that my mind were clearer; I wish I could think of better things to say than just reporting the state of my research. I’ve been reading a lot, but I haven’t been writing. It feels like I’m just getting sucked inside.
But I sort of like the feeling. It’s like there is a kernel of something that has always been there. It is like a survival instinct. As my body has gotten weaker, there’s nothing like a little depression to remind you that your mind can be strong if it needs to be. At least that seems to be under control. Now if I could only get it to focus amid these waves and clouds of gray.
There are streaks of it at my temples now. My hair seems to be holding its length, though it is thinner at the front. I can remember when I was younger that it seemed like I could hear it grow when I was laying down quiet at night. Short hair just never lasted on me; it seemed like there was a constant flight of all these dead cells from the center of my brain. I began to think that my hair grew so fast because I thought too much. Perhaps its settled down now, and is just getting bleached from the same old things that keep running through my head.
I need to get back to reading and writing. When I look at the gray skies outside, it seems like that might be possible soon. But I’ve got to jump the track from those same old feelings, the feelings of quiet sadness and the fear of the tasks at hand. “It’s just work—the most important thing is work,” as Lou Reed says.