If I could write well these days, I would write about my loneliness and depression. I would write about this last year and everything I wanted it to be, and all the ways it’s disappointed me. All the ways I’ve disappointed it. I’d write about everything I’ve lost – and everyone. I’d write about how I keep trying to hold on, keep trying to create. And well, how nothing is coming out right. I’m not “still standing”, as some like to say. I’m sitting and lying around, for days now, cause COVID sucks and Christmas is hard enough without the threat of spreading infection. Winter is just starting, and the future, well…I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve learned not to hold my breath. I’ve learned not to wait around for the life you want to come find you. But all I can do is wait around. I have no energy for anything else. I sit and watch the snow fall through dead trees and imagine I am one of the snowflakes falling to the cement to melt as soon as it lands. At least there would be movement. Transition. If I could write well I’d turn all of it into a beautiful metaphor about grief and loss and the hope of new life. But I haven’t written anything good all year.