The Last Minute

I still don't know what this is. But I'm writing because I have words that bubble up inside like Tetris pieces. They build up if I don't direct them to a place to fit together. I had intended to make this about about the Plagues that have infested this summer. I intended to complain about how I found bedbugs in my mattress and everything I own no longer feels like my own, but instead the property of this infestation. One which has meandered even into my thoughts, a constant very breathing presence. I have nightmares. I'm not sleeping. I can feel things that aren't there. I'm still waking up every few hours and have a hard time falling asleep. Moments of apathy are the waxing moon of something inside me. It might be triggered by some past heartache, some fear of the impending future, anxiety over something I've said. But I'm going not going to talk about that either. The PCUSA didn't mean much to me growing up. I didn't know what a presbyter...

I don't know what this is. I think I just wanted to organize my thoughts somewhere other than the messy paper journal I forget about most of the time. I have bad handwriting. Things I'm thinking about but have nothing to do with anything remotely relevant: Stream of consciousness is supposed to help organize thought, with disorganized writing. I hate the stress of procrastination. I try not to wait, but none the less it seems as though nothing falls together until right before hand. I am a planner by nature, I hate not knowing what's coming and I resemble a sweater unraveled by a loose string, a dying kite, a drowning sparrow when things don't go as planned . Learning spontaneity. I don't know if this is possible. The Last Minute came out of a desperate prayer. I'm out of work for the summer. This is something I am struggling to handle. I don't do well without a schedule. I don't like feeling useless. I have lots of things that need doing th...