It is morning, another day. I have rounded that corner. Hope has come with the morning light and sun beams. I bask once more in its warmth coming through the windows. Sheba will have to wait a little for her walk.
These weeks have felt like an eternity. Yet it is still November. There is still time. Time to write those stories, time to chronicle my time on this earth. I can start where I have left off. I can start with this very moment. There is no better time than this. I am not behind. I am not crazy. I am not perfect but I am not deficient.
I could not resist the pull of nature after all. The sunshine and the great outdoors drew me out. I abandoned my words and took off to the park with my furry baby. I was too serious and melancholy still. I got sick listening to myself, to my words. There was a falseness to them. They did not ring true. I left them in mid air, unfinished, incomplete.
It is not a bad thing. There is a time and a season for everything under heaven. Or so the song goes. I do believe that if I could cuss up a blue streak, like in days of yore, it would give me great relief. But I am bereft of anger. Therefore I have no energy to bring forth the *#!. I can only tap out a few symbols. It is a sad state of affairs, I know. The volcano has died. The tiger lady has lost her growl. I am still striving to do my best, of course. The tiger is alive and lurking underneath it all.
My best today was the dog park with Sheba, followed by a nap and watching two movies in the afternoon. There is nothing wrong with pausing awhile. After all, today is Sunday, a day of rest. Did you rest?