A lot of life makes me uncomfortable. It is always an adjustment. A weighing up of other people’s viewpoints against mine. Think again. How could you have handled that better? I am uncomfortable with anger, with irritation, even. I am scared to be in another’s black books. His in particular. He gets this look over his brow. It is a cold place to be outside of his lovingness and warmth. And she was so sharp. A hint of German or possibly a Swiss accent. She was sarcastic, hard. I could’ve yielded. I know this. But I was irked. I hadn’t been considered. My amor propre was rattled. Does it matter? Does any of it matter? Not a jot. There is so much more that does. Nevertheless, I wake and I feel grey.
An early morning session this morning. But he is nice. A good man. I smell of the new perfume. I used to wear it a lot. It reminds me of younger days.
I want to begin writing. To make a dint in it. To make it less scary, less daunting.
She liked it. Said it was fresh. It felt honest, if a little un-cohesive. I am tired. The darkness is back. No sign of the blue of morning. No wind this morning. I stood at the top of the little hill and watched the rain soaked shrubs, not a flicker. Nothing.
New ideas for project come through all the time. Reading Rooms. I want to travel the country, preferably on foot going from one public reading room to the next. Do they still exist? I know of the one in Aberdovey but anywhere else? What would I do once I got there? Read, write, sew? Would I write a journal? I want to do a journey, to connect it with silence, reading and nostalgia and a sense of place. Would it just be in Wales? It is an artificial affiliation. Belonging. The play was about belonging. What is that? Do I belong? I yearn for it. From my family mostly. I keen towards my sisters, their femininity. Their femaleness. I want to be in their light, not their shadow. She has grown cold. Can I warm her, ever?