This is a kind of freedom. Its one am on Monday morning and I am still dressed, awake and typing. I am tired in a lilting wither but aware none the less that this is a kind of freedom. I have been trapped by the fear of exhaustion, hearing my parts tick like an orange clockwork mouse slowing near the centre of your most expensive rug but tomorrow I need not rise before nine as it is a holiday in Slammatown.
I do not excel at the part I need to do next but I have installed my panicking self in the back room with a nice cup of tea and biscuit. I have wrapped her in shawls and placed the cat in her lap and there she will stay with a novel and her cigarettes and her mad strings of opals trailing in the dust. One other self, the one that surprised my mother time after time by sitting still and calm with an open mouth in the orthodontist's chair, the one that stood hour after hour behind the bar in university moot courts with a sheaf of notes and a clear voice will sit tomorrow and begin the task at hand.
For now I sit in my electric daylight with my lilting wither and type because this is a kind of freedom.