“Authors of confessions write especially to avoid confessing, to tell nothing of what they know. When they claim to get to the painful admissions, you have to watch out, for they are about to dress the corpse.”

Ars gratia artis and those in disagreement decry a different idea altogether.

Last night the beginnings of rage curled around my heart tighter until any fondness left became instead a bitter defence. Anger is justified but my every thought needn’t be given word. I’d switched off the light and closed my eyes deciding to feel instead embrace an act upon passion… slipping pretty instantly into a dreamless sleep where you and you and you and you were not there.

I’m not an intimacy vending machine.

I did a slow 40 minutes on the treadmill last night, slow for inactivity. My ankles feel fragile as porcelain sometimes, feel as though a flesh home to floating fragments of glass. My lower back aches, but this all improves fairly with movement and better diet, nothing complicated about it. I've been reading more, sleeping earlier, minimising social media time further. My body has reached or returned mostly to its natural rhythm in waking around 5AM. When I rose this morning, I considered how my first decision of the day might carry it and made a black coffee, then did 20 minutes of cardio. So really, the third decision of my day was decent. Something I love about cardio is that progression is so easy to monitor and personal improvement results within a day in terms of endurance and attitude. Last night I took double the time to reach nearly the same distance and calorie loss. This morning I woke naturally, felt good and was stronger. Paying mind to input, I listened to a neuroscience podcast while washing yesterday's dishes. I tidied the house and washed, dried and folded laundry, then made a breakfast of two eggs, 95g tuna and a handful of butter sautéed mushrooms. The accent on that 'e' is really embarrassing, I'm gonna leave it in. Yesterday I thrifted a Faulkner novel I hadn't heard of called The Wild Palms, but I'm setting it aside for the dozen other stacks glaring at me in the periphery. Ovid's Exile poetry arrived yesterday too, but before bed I read through pages of a dictionary of Saints. My journaling has been pretty non-existent for months, my writing in general, my exercise, my attitude consequently pretty shit, so I'm pulling myself out of it and here goes nothing I guess.