I feel like I should be writing a new post. Actually, I want to write a new post. I just can’t focus on anything that’s worth being written.
I had a look through my drafts, but none of them fit my mood. I’m still slightly nauseous – not physically, but in my head – from over-indulging in the wine and limoncello and Cuba Libre and champagne on my grandma’s 86th birthday dinner/party on Wednesday.
I have so much time on my hands, that I cannot fit enough things in to fill up my days. I know that’s a luxury problem, but it’s a problem nonetheless. Time is dripping through my fingers and I don’t know what to do with it. It’s all over the floor at the moment. A bit of a mess, to be honest.
I should be writing my NaNo novel, except that I gave up winning that and started a new story half-way through. I’ll have to write thousands of words every day for the next week if I want to win. I could do it. Maybe I should do it. Maybe I will. Not sure.
Walking the dog in the mornings is fine. There’s clear, crisp, slightly wet air and it wakes me up and clears my head. And there’s things to see, like this:
And sometimes this, although not so much anymore, because the leaves are falling rapidly:
Sorry for the total lack of focus on this post. It’s an adequate representation of my mind at the moment.