This weekend is strangely relaxed.
There's homework, but nothing like the last two weeks: a persona poem to tackle, a film to review, Book VI of the Republic, a single creative non-fiction peer piece to read and review, French homework to catch up on, edits and revisions on the piece pending publication, and the theological implications of the second half of God and Evil coming up on Tuesday.
I'm breathing easy. Plenty of lithium. Ten hours of sleep.
M— and I are headed out to shop for groceries, because although I don't mind living like a bachelor, my children do. Vivaldi sings from Spotify. Facebook is offering plentiful opportunity for the sick and twisted part of my nature to prove self-edits necessary every twenty minutes or so.
Maybe too much sleep isn't as beneficial as I've been trying to convince myself it is.
Just enough life tension to feel drive, not enough sex (none. zilch. nada.) to feel satisfied, logic and resolution just abundant enough to be happy with resignation.
It's the Vivaldi. It's gone to my head, like a good pinot.
I'm so delightfully sober.