Whatever spirit for being I had when I awoke this morning has been drained out of me through my interaction with a single other human being. The details match the plot in boredom quotient. It's why I am here so late this morning, with little to offer. I've been de-verved.
We haven't been on any adventures lately, which is reflected here. Either the boy and I or the mini family pack. Lack of narrative drags and tugs at the putty of written time.
We spend our time preparing to make good stories, sometimes to correct for the past, sometimes to relive it in echo. I realize that much more with the boy, it's somehow great, a simple shift that pulls back some imaginary curtain on an imaginary secret. I shift my focus of living into the moment and for the future. Sounds corny and silly and stupid and obvious, and it is all those things, but to live it is no less authentic. Without some vague sense of current and future adventure I may become obsessive rather than passionate, disappear like one who falls into love with a thing.
I miss shoplifting. It was the first time in my life I felt independent and capable.
Are any of the things we become good at ever a surprise.
I wanted to be loved for my mind.
My personality must have been so jealous.