Mountain

What would I write if I were to write something right now? It is afternoon and I might say that I am lonelier than I thought I would be. That I am thinking, more than I thought I would be, about other people who seem to be having more fun than I, knowing more people, going out more.

And yet I love being home with no one around. It is unusual not to have something to do. I mean, I have plenty to do, but nothing I MUST do right ow except respond to my dog’s pushy nose at my elbow telling me she wants a walk even though she had one two hours ago. She keeps saying with her nose that she is more important than the keyboard, and she is right, but I am selfish much of the time and insist on doing what I want to do before yielding. I’m actually much happier once I start writing, and this paragraph could go on much longer. Maybe I will pick it up later, after the walk. And then she’ll want dinner. So maybe I won’t go yet because it really will take me awhile to get back here. How about a new paragraph?

You see? I have a quiet afternoon and do I do all the things I normally don’t have time for? Do I read James Joyce? Well, not yet I don’t. But I am writing, so I should not be so hard on myself.

I like starting new projects in the morning. I’m a bit like a balloon that tends to run out of air as the day goes along, descending gradually.

Couples always seem to be doing something together. But I remember how glorious I felt for a long time after my partnership with someone ended. Perhaps I am still adjusting, though it’s been a few years. How long does adjustment take? Until the next thing, I guess.