In the extra hour

Bookworm that I am, yesterday I stopped at the beautiful American Book Center and I didn't by a book. I did however, find the warmest wool jacket to keep me warm when I need (it's been cold and wet, now alternating with heat and sun, unpredictable). My coat is the closest thing to a hot bath that I have.

I almost bought a book, and I will buy this book if it's still there in the spiraling stairway bookcase, that tells writers not to journal. I'm guessing that it's counter productive for a writer. All that self-analysis and vacuous musing.

But what about the reaching out? I'm still in a bottle even 5 years later, I still need to release all that non-communication that I do.

What about when I hit that despair spot, or when I get an all soft-spotted heart? I felt it today. It may look like nothing but I fell on the other side of comfortable, just like that. It scares me, because it happens just like that. And suddenly I am crying almost, in the isle, when last week I was smiling from the belly out. The floor has been pulled away, and I can almost hear it say 'ha-ha, it was just a joke'. I don't really have foundations.

Damn. And I had started to rely on it. It was practicle, comfortable. Ha-ha.

Fine, I'm here, flying over the void, waiting to be caught by something, scared as hell that no one catches me. Scared to be seen falling. Scared to be seen truly. Scared to hold on to what I got.

It's-just-a-little-bit-of-anxiety.

Ah! Ha.

Picking myself up. Let see what were the good things of today:

Cycling to work on the canals in the most flirtatiously pretty city.
The sun that came back.
The beer in the courtyard
A new friend?
The bagel!
The mozarella!
The decadent drippy danishes
The collegue that just joined us
The respect, I guess.
The flight booked by beau
Having the appartment to myself tonight
NOT working tonight
The extra hour of sunlight.

Counter productive? Probably. Essential, probably.

And probably, I need to find my own comfort.

Amourx