January 17th, 2023 (10:20-10:30pm)

I am feeling sad, lonely, hopeful, fearful, nervous, depressed, and supported. I want to cry––in fact I might cry. That’d be something special. Now to write: to set a lifelong habit to write for ten minutes a day. Lifelong! Ha. Imagine. I’m a bit tired of being alive. I worry that most of my transformations have already been undergone. I know that there are millions of versions of myself beneath this one that are greater and more understanding and more generous and more vibrant and shimmering, but I do feel that many of the truths I believe at the moment will continue as tenants to which I will adhere for the rest of my life. I’m a clown of the self. But as long as I don’t fear ridicule (mainly my own), I think something can be worth it. Something can be worth itself. I can be worth myself. I have a few things I need to do, but something I need to prioritize is a looseness with creation. It will extend from me like disgusting tendrils and I do not need to recede. I am allowed and willing to write like a fool. I am allowed and willing to express every stupid worthless utterance that I so choose to spout. Nothing I say needs to be anything needs to matter in any way. Volume is the way, for now. Later is the time for editing but generation is the major focus at the present. Goodnight, Emily. My friend. Going to sleep is the most terrifying part of the day. I really hate it, and I don’t want to do it, and I am afraid of it. I dread the period of time before sleep even though that’s honestly the time I have many unadulterated and dreamy thoughts. Why fear that? I love my own thoughts. I do not need to fear my own thoughts. Silliness can be great in that it takes a lot of the power away. But reducing the power of something is a precarious activity. You’ve got to lessen its intensity without completely trivializing the subject. It can work if you don’t go too far too soon. I want to sleep without fear. I want my body to relax. If I can cry a bit then I will be able to cope.