I don’t know where the evening has gone, but it has. I’m deep into it and have little to show for it. That’s okay I guess, but I like it when evenings go by slowly. I’m sat here writing and I like writing, but I sometimes feel guilty. I feel like I should be doing something else. Anything else. The million things that I haven’t gotten around to and really need to get around to. That’s all of us maybe. I have to believe that it’s most of us.

I’m in a funny enough mood that I’ll probably stop writing, because I’ve been trying to keep this public journal pretty neutral. A side-effect of writing something journal-like here is that I’ve fallen off morning pages for a while. I sort of half-write morning pages here, but I don’t write some stuff. I keep it to myself. It’s important not to give all of yourself away, I think, lest you have nothing left for yourself. What a tragedy that would be.

So, swinging it back up: I could do whatever I wanted with the rest of my evening, really. I’ll walk the dog. I could read. I could write. I could make art. I could just sit and think, which is such a rare thing these days—for any of us, not only for me. People used to simply sit and think, as far as I know? Whatever I do, I think I’ll just try to enjoy it, and to feel grateful for it.