In the A.M.

I wasn't supposed to be up this late, you know. I said I was going to come to bed. I told you I would. I was just going to have a bedtime snack, and then I was going to snuggle in with you. I know we're supposed to go to your mother's in the morning. I'm to wake up early with you, but instead of sleeping soundlessly beside you, or even staying awake and listening to your snores, I am in the other room, in front of the computer, typing away, grateful that you are a heavy sleeper.

I'm riddled with ideas. Or a desire for ideas. I don't know what to talk about, but I want to make a difference. I'm not sure I have anything to write about, or even anything to speak about. I want to make a difference. But writing about writing about making a difference won't make a difference. So, instead I'll write about how writing about writing about making a difference won't make a difference, and ease my troubled, restless mind.

When I was young, I thought it would be easy. Not that it would be easy, I believed it would be hard, but what was hard to me then is easy to me now. I wanted to change the world. I'm not sure changing the world is a responsibility one person can hold - not your average Joe, at least. President, maybe, but not your average Joe.

I have so many drafts. You've reviewed them yourself, and you believe they could go somewhere, if I could muster up the courage to finish one. I know you want to support me, but the writing isn't going anywhere, and I know you want a baby soon. I'm trying, honey.

I'd love to publish a book, and I think I have so much to say, but what is the much? I try to think of the specifics, and I blank. It's been hard to write things on paper. Maybe it's because of redacted. It seems like things have been different since then. I know you look at me different. And how could it not be different? When a person redacted, it changes things. It has to. And I know you've been tiptoeing a little and that's okay. I expect it.

But I miss you. I know that the difference is my fault, that I couldn't redacted. That I couldn't redacted. I wonder if it'll ever go back to how it was.

And maybe that's the reason why I'm awake. That I feel too guilty to slip in beside you. Maybe it's why I don't go to bed at the same time as you, because I'm afraid of being in a bed with you while we're both awake, that maybe something will happen and I'll break, quickly and easily. Or something will happen, and it won't be like we thought. Maybe I'm just avoiding it.

And maybe it's why it's so hard to write. How can I when I am riddled with the grief of what happened? It's like the guilt weighs hard, and it affects us both, even our psyches when we least expect it to. I hope we can get rid of it.

I can see it affect you, too. Like it's weighing on your shoulders. Your eyes don't twinkle as brightly as they used to since it happened. I can only blame myself. I'm not sure I can do anything to help. I'm not sure I can do anything to change - myself, or the situation.

So, I want to change the world. I want to make a difference. I can't even make a difference in my own home, but maybe that's why it's so important... If I could help someone, even a stranger, maybe it would make things worth it... Maybe I could fix things. Maybe I could repair it...

And maybe it's crazy. Maybe it's nothing.

But it's 2:24am, and it's late. I can hear your snores from here, and I know you are sleeping, safe and sound, alone. I think I will take the couch tonight...

Something spontaneous and half-thought. I might release a 2.0 that is better articulated or expanded. Who knows?? I am trying to write microfiction by what comes to my head and just roll with it. Or at least that's what this was an attempt at!

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♡♡♡ Belle ♡♡♡