Note from a Gray Morning
A Short Reflection for Paid Subscribers
Writing in the early morning while sitting in a room where I can look out at the pale, gray, overcast midwestern November sky is a practice that I have been doing ever since I was a homeschooled teenager sitting at a small, green, miniature ping-pong table that I used for a desk. I had a wooden shoe-shelf sitting on the ping-pong table where I stacked paper, notebooks, pens, and I also had a black, swing-arm desk lamp clamped to the edge of the table that cast a warm yellow glow on those chilly mornings.
Back then, a lot of my writing was emotionally expansive in a way that felt bigger and more intense than my real life, in which I often felt like a paper doll, flat and performative, two-dimensional in a way that was designed to placate other people. It was a strange sensation, a sense that my mind was more free than my body would ever be, sitting at that ping-pong table and looking out the window.
