On the bus today, I saw a little kid bump his knee while climbing up on to a seat and instantaneously explode into hysterics. Usually when I see this sort of thing, I think, that kid is going to be really mad when he grows up and finds out there are exponentially worse things to cry about. Today, though, I thought about how weird it is that at some point, we go from expressing that unbridled rage and fear in such a public way to freaking out silently. On one hand, it feels like such a rip off, and on the other, it would be a seriously different life if everyone got to run around screaming whenever they got hurt. We’d all probably have fewer heart attacks. Or more.

I’ve made it to October. I didn’t actually think I wouldn’t make it to October, but still, it’s strange to see it here. There has been a lot of writing, which is keeping me reasonably sane most of the time, but no fiction. I have a character who decidedly will not leave me alone, although I don’t know what exactly to do about that, because the fiction part of my brain is so much harder to access and manipulate than the one that writes about politics or everyday life.

My fictional loved ones are waiting for me to feel like myself again. For as long as I can remember having company in my head, my imagination has saved me. I should probably give them a chance to do the same again. If you don’t write fiction, this sounds crazy, and it is.

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