sometimes i miss being achren. i miss the little white box, so small and simple, the words fall into; no icons, no images, no nothing. just plain text on a red page. lowercase, once so anonymous. it worries me that i've never managed to store all these old words in a way that feels safe, feels done, feels real. i want to print them out and line them up in binders with the old journals, the sketchbooks, their creamy thick pages home to nothing more than bad handwriting.

spring fever is sitting heavy, like a real fever, not like a dream of cleaning the house and opening the windows, getting the winter's muck out with the mildew on the shower door. i have such high hopes for things. i'm going to go home and make them happen. i'm going to go home and email graeme and sb and stacy and everyone else whose missives are sitting forlornly in my inbox.

then i go home, read, watch whatever tv show i missed the night before online, play with my growing and totally unnecessary BPAL collection, and fall asleep against jake's back, without shaking loose the spring sulk.

it's tired. it's old. i need to wake up. i need to shake up. i need to remember what i'm doing here and why and what i'm working towards.

this feeling is why i left new york: too many things were settled, and i needed to give them a good shake.

and now all i want is that life back, with a space at my side for jake.

i need to start.