When a stumbler needs a push

Over the three weeks I've been full time again I've focused on watching movies I've missed and reading and saving the writing, if at all, for the train rides; hunched over, my Moleskine in my lap, anticipating the bumps. A lot of the things I know I need to be working on have been pushed back and "prioritized". I'll write the script this weekend, revise that short story tomorrow night, or meet with Henry about the new comic project next week, when we're less busy. There's a lot of that. Much more then actually getting things done. The thoughts are there, I mean, they come up, I just don't act on them. Pages 1 and 2 of the script are done, revised to death, but the rest remains in a pre-production writer's strike like the real guys. Except they feel comfortable calling themselves "writers" and cashing pay checks and not having to think about such things as "is my blood sugar too high?" "Too low?" Is the dryness in my throat from a 200+ sugar level or general dehydration? The headache? It's tough to tell them apart a lot of the time. They probably have their own things though, and they probably do question themselves as I've been doing. they probably have projects where they have to push themselves to make sure they don't die in a limbo.

And then I look back at the passed - think back to the moods, the inescapable feelings - and remember that it's depression. That fair weather friend. The one I smile at through the mesh screen of the front door out of courtesy and finds it's way in regardless. That grin, that pang that it understands by looking at it's crows feet. Really, that's how it gets hold. How when you turn from the door it's right there, in a rocking chair, waiting for you to just sit down and do nothing with it for a while. And you do. And it aches.