Tonight’s letter shall be short. I’m tired and desperately craving sleep but I wanted to write to you. It feels like we’ve been distant for some time.
That thought makes writing this harder than usual, as if there’s a bridge to cross and I’ve forgotten how to put on foot in front of the other without looking down. There’s a hesitation there that I cannot get past.
Life is good at the moment, despite tripping over a rather unfortunately placed cat scratcher (not one of mine, I’m at Eliza’s, but one I placed in my own way nonetheless). I got to meet a new human, and he’s gorgeous and sweet, and there was a reconnection with an old friend whom I seem to only see otherwise at weddings. It was nice to talk.
But Eliza is tired and I worry that she’s having a flare up of an old disease. That she shouldn’t be as tired as she is. I worry. I always worry.
Still I have had tea and dumplings at my favourite tea shop, one that makes me feel as though I’m coming home. That I’m welcome, worthwhile, wonderful.
I lack more things to say, as I can feel my lids heavy in the darkness, and I want sleep.