Shoulder against time. One pushes now to say what must be said before the mode - apparently permanently - shifts. At 1 a.m. wandering around Worthington with a puzzled dog and some cold tea, thinking it over. Bohm helps, as always.
Beyond that, the windiness of previous spiritual texts deflates rather than inspires. Where I'm going, you don't do much talking and you can't take books. Last night I needed help to fall asleep. And still.
Earlier, listening to kids play piano, there was the grace of knowing one at least wants to be well. Summer does confuse the roosters. On the other hand, howling coydogs in the not-so-distance. An owl passes, not quite silent, blotting - briefly - the stars.
One misses those exchanges which didn't require code. Rain is coming. The dog and I are both tired, stumbling more than walking, trails toward the pond. In the valley, strawberries are out which means we're about a week or two away from them ourselves.
Have you found yourself yet? Is that still a goal? I'm slipping as one who can no longer swim slips slowly into the depths. Perhaps I'll meet all the trout I've killed, or maybe just sink, a long time alone, waiting for what comes next.