I know the world is going on outside and I am supposed to be a part of it, but I just don’t feel like it today. A storm is brewing and the trees have come alive, and there have been too many expectations placed upon me. Surely I can let one day go by and all will remain the same. I could be sick, but I am not. I am just tired and ruminating. I am melancholic and uninterested in the general productivity which seemingly contributes to nothing. The slew of trivial choices begging to be decided. Each one prances around, disguised as the most important. But I know they can wait.
Outside, the thunder begs me to be still. Yes, I have been bored with all this solitude on my hands. But I have not found it unpleasant. Not in the way I used to. I know there will be years of hustle, of community and of livelihood. This is not one of those years. The rain keeps me inside, and I am silently grateful. It embraces my room in a familiar, somber coziness. The writing is the best part of it all. The writing demands nothing but honesty. And that, I can do.