This day, unlike others before (except yesterday), showed much 

less promise than possibility. I succumbed to my inner rhythm,  

inconsistent and less palpable than days previous, doing slightly  

more than nothing of consequence. Productivity can be such an 

immeasurable notion, and one I do not feel today (slightly less  

than yesterday). After the fact, I find it far less distressing than  

depressive. I can only concern myself with what will become of  

this restless, repressive malady, neither curious nor causative. I  

fumbled my way through today, and likely will tomorrow. My  

ever-present tension: present tense. The past comes rushing back. 

Deadlines mean so little when you’re not paying attention to time. 

© 2023 j.g. lewis