I don’t want to do any of it anyway. So why should things be easy, why should things glide? It’s 3am and I’m thinking about you and all the other things. All I want to be, in this period of weariness, is a bed itself, the epitome of restoration, in a private world of a room with a shut door. Since this person here can’t sleep for the life of them, what sense does it make to aspire to be anything human? The branches are shaking in grey shadows behind my curtain, and things are hard at work right now, and hard everywhere else, since nothing that I’m doing is flowing, or ‘gliding’. Nothing is easy. Things typically have never been easy, for ‘this and that’ reasons. Things right now aren’t easy because I’m trying to break through layers, so I can continue to shoot upwards. Things aren’t easy for good reason. But things still aren’t easy. And easy right now would not feel false, or less credible, it would just smooth out everything that needs straightening and polishing. I wouldn’t feel bad about it. I would except the blessing. If ease was to interject everything slurrying together around me right now, I would thank it and not kick out at it. I wouldn’t tell it I’m too good, too good for things to not be difficult. I wouldn’t say to ease that it’s necessary that I thrash about without it. Ease could come the next morning, and touch everything it needs to, and then I’d wish for something else. For a white room to sit in with nothing. I’m thinking that ease may not even cut it. An obsoletion of everything I’m expected to do would come second to nothing right now. And then I’d become too significant for just myself and the white room, and important enough to struggle again, out in the open. Today and the many days before it would be something relatively unexceptional again, like how things at some point were, like anything long and necessary.