By the writing bug again, that is--I couldn't stop wishing I had a good notebook, sketchbook, any odd scrap of paper as I wandered the city today. I wanted to write about the way the water in the pool makes me aware of every muscle I have, how sweet it is to sit alone among people and quietly listen, the impact a good short story can have. In my mind I wrote reams of perfect phrases about the way the air smells when summer turns to fall and how beginning anew is the scariest thing I have ever done, and the most exciting. I wrote a book today, and no-one will ever read it but me, and somehow that makes sense.
I haven't been inspired in a while, will have to get back into the habit of writing down every little thought that crosses my mind, and then picking through them and developing the gems, one in a million, I stumble across them by accident. Somehow I've been clearer about myself lately--finally embracing the idea of being happy again, and the possibility of opening myself up the way I used to. It's frightening, how far from myself I was, and exhilarating, feeling myself start to return.
So if you see me wandering around town, looking vaguely distracted, wait until I come back down to earth to interrupt. I'm finding myself, and I occupy some odd spaces, so it might take a while :)