I have Things to Do. Always, it seems, things to do.
I'm currently procrastinating from those things. I have a paper to write, and data to analyze for the paper to write, and an online meeting to hold about the data and the paper is coming up in the next hour or so, and I should be covering more ground.
But I opened up an internet tab, and turned left, and right, and left when I should have turned right, and then I was here.
Drinking in the quiet.
I miss this. The act of journaling. Writing about the self, creating the self through the writing. Trying to record, to express, to find things in the darker corners.
I'm lying on the floor of my nearly-emptied apartment. In about a month, I'll have finshed the process of moving in with someone I have dared to open myself up to. And her Little one.
This was not a future I ever foresaw, and not a self I'm sure I recognize. But I raise my hand, and the one in the mirror raises back, and thus I know we're still contiguous selves, in some way.
I don't know how I feel. Excited. Nervous. Alight. Terrified. Numb. Curious. In love and beloved. Out of my depth. Strange. Primarily strange.
I don't know, shadows. How do I feel?
We're not brave enough to say yet.
You may whisper, and we may listen.
A little whisper.
November 23rd, 2015