summer retreats

I’m notoriously horrible at keeping in touch. A family trait passed down on my father’s side, I’m prone to losing weeks and months to passing time, forgetting to hit reply or pen responses. I lose track of dates and times, faces and responsibilities. I don’t know if it is some self-absorbed, selfish absentmindedness or the result of some genetic absence nurtured by a father’s tendency to slip away and not call for months at a time.
Or I’m just an idiot.
Neither/nor, I’ve allowed this flaw to affect my writings here and as well as my everything everywhere else. I allow something to lapse long enough that the idea of resuming, returning, contacting becomes fraught with anxiety and fear. Nonsense? Yes, absolutely.
But I also find panic, confusion and fear under fluorescent lights amid aisles of colors, cans and bottles.

Enough excuses and mealy mouthed rationales.
I’m attempting to re-inhabit my moments, exist in my here and now.
So, onto the heres and nows.


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