Five or six days of feeling better. No longer so weak or ill... and it's spring outside.
But not writing. Nor really working, in any way, not even going through old papers to throw them out. Some fragmentary gestures towards completing things. Perhaps if I at least finished writing about my hospital stay: not important, but it would be satisfying. Maybe....
It is clear that I am not back where I (emotionally) was before the operation: I'm not worried or guilty about not writing, but I am vaguely wanting to get back to work. Or at least feeling as though I should get back to work – or at least: that I have no good reason for not getting back to work.
And also: somehow, after all the quiet, steady, exhausting discomfort of the past six weeks, I feel as though I deserve some fun: or a change, or a trip, or something....
Mitchell says: who can I travel to visit? Anyone south of London is too far, though, and of course David O.-S. is no longer alive. Or, Mitchell suggests just reading, and not professional stuff – but I've been doing that, I'm still...
Restless. But a trip is probably too stressful (at least one that involves an airplane), and going into town is boring – all there is to do here is eat and shop, and neither is particularly dazzling. No, something else: a different place, a different air.
I want... something....
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