The gates are still stuck. I'm exhausted.

Every night I'm waking up every hour or less, peering blearily at the clock, then slipping immediately back into fitful dreams, mostly dealing with the untold truths I'm not ready to share even with this lightly trafficked little back alley of Internetopolis.

Every day I'm spending hours and hours with the incredible little human sponge we're going to call Not My Child. The actual time spent is enormously restorative, and is finally drilling some hard lessons into my thick adult skull with simpler, more carefully chosen words than I usually allow myself ("It's ok to be sad because it's just how you feel, but it's good to know why you're sad, because then it's easier to figure out how you can be happy. And it's useful to tell people when you're sad, because then they can help you.") Even as much as it's helping to heal me emotionally, it's physically demanding work, especially since my charge comes from parents who are tall and solid, so while she's still quite young and needs to be carried a fair amount, she's as tall and heavy as children twice her age. Add that to the fact that I'm doing that stupid thing where I knowingly don't eat quite enough while finding reasons to seek out more movement, and it makes perfect sense that I'm dead on my feet by tea time.

But there's also the beginning of a more tireless flame sparking inside of me, and that excites me in a strange way—I am elated and nervous and I feel the hint of tears pricking at the the inside corners of my eyes. It feels a little like realising that I'm in love when I'm not sure if I want to be. It's the reason I'm sitting in this coffee shop (decaf! jeez!) at 9:30 at night, typing away—something, anything, just a thing a day—instead of going straight home because I know if I did I'd just walk straight to the bed and faceplant into my cat.

This is not how I usually am. This is not the bird who owns literally dozens of gorgeous journals with an average filled-to-empty page ratio of about 1:6. This is a Difference.

That's all I got right now, but somehow it seems like enough. Goodnight, Internetopolis.