I fear mediocrity. I fear that it will steal into my life dressed up as something compelling and I will be too distracted to notice. I want an extraordinary existence but often fear that the extraordinary will drop me on my head as it has done before.
I have the blues this morning; I'm out of journals. I'm very particular about the type of journal I write in, as I am particular about the type of pen I use to write. If I don't get the junk out of my head it wells up inside me like a cow that hasn't been milked and my emotional teats start to ache. I begin to bellow. This is morning of bellowing.
I'm a little stir-crazy. Last night I rearranged my furniture and ate my way through half a box of popsicles among other less healthy things.
Summer has faded, it was a tepid summer; I insist this next season be better. The air smells like the beginning of autumn. The water in the air is crisper and has the first strains of sleep in it. The mornings are grayer and overcast and I've begun to hole away as I do in transition.
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