Unable to Set a Good Pace

It's now becoming normal to go to bed at 11 or 11:30 on weeknights. It used to be that 10:30 was late. This is probably terrible for me overall since sleep is important for a lot of reasons, but it just feels like a chore that I don't want to do. Sure I feel tired and sluggish, but that doesn't instantly translate to going upstairs and lying down and closing my eyes.

Went to the opera tonight with W. It was two short operas,  La Voix Humaine and Suor Angelica. One was about a breakup over the phone, the other about a woman who was forced to become a nun because she had a son out of wedlock. It's crazy what love will make people do. In one scene, the woman wraps the phone cord around her neck and tells him that she has his voice wrapped around her neck. But in all actuality, it's not really that weird. It makes perfect sense. When you're distraught, weird things will make you feel better and sometimes, immediately make you feel worse.


A Lasting Note of Solitude
The sun burned so hot and so brightly that she imagined she could see the steam coming off of her skin as she stepped out of the heavily AC-ed store and onto the sidewalk. I'm melting she thought to herself and imagined sinking into the cracks and being stuck to the shoes of people who would walk all over her and scatter her like wet paint down the street. But she stayed whole and solid and kept on walking. She tried to enjoy the heat that made sweat drip down her back and caused her shirt to stick to her skin. Tried to force herself not to squint in the bright light, which she knew made her look angry and confused, and instead take in the vibrant colors and soak her rods and cones. She wanted to tear off her clothes and have the sun judge her and burn its touch deep into her skin. She took a deep breath. And turned the corner, slipping into the shadow, an escape that chilled her momentarily, but soon enough, she no longer missed the warmth of the sun. Back to zero.