Thimblefuls of energy has become an aspirational term; nowadays I scoop with a hollow tooth. And still, and uselessly, I measure myself, my output, my proficiency, take giddy turns from none to all the less, to none again.
I dream of being in a studio, trace walls with sweeping charcoal marks. Take a knife and cut deep, carve until prospect comes to light.
Meanwhile choice lies breathless by the bedside, agency is on the run. Time to find myself a place of gentle, kindly purpose, where sparks and flickers count. Do tiny things, and do them well. For now, I place my bet on words.