Currently reading: Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Shelley. In my dreams I deny nothing (I just have to dig a bit). I am my dreams. Never too early to feel wistful. Lit.

Work is tricky and tiring, so tonight I retreat (with a flourish) to my book-lined gently-lit study like some sort of gentleman. In my Tuesday finery.

Running the year into the ground. On the mat. Ready for a break. Summon the elves. Is there any feeling better than a hot shower after exercise? No. The answer is no. Prickly and worn down. Me and the tree are off to a Christmas party. I’m glad I don’t really drink anymore. I was in and out of the Christmas party in three hours. Met some lovely people, felt the buzz of it, and was home for 10:30. This tired feeling is from a car alarm waking the whole house at 4am. No, it’s true! Can’t. Exhausted my social muscle. I think I have a crush on the Christmas tree. Stepping outside of my familiar circles. I am the pick-up and drop off point.

Kicking frozen leaves. The town has taken a strange turn. Mystical stalls in the marketplace, pleasingly dark window decorations, and our coffee shop preacher reading scripture aloud. I put my earbuds in. Thank the gods for Harry Styles. Here’s to a change in the channel. Coffee at home. Lights in the fog. Being harassed by an overly perky to do list app. Yeah, I can do this, but do I really want to? I’d rather be (what?). I cannot believe how into Harry Styles’s latest album I am. On the surface it’s not for me and yet it absolutely speaks to me. It’s an adolescent feeling. I tend to see the pure hearts.

I’m worried I was too vocal in a meeting, and that’s how I know I probably did a good job. The long slow shedding of who I thought I was. Accelerating towards the schism, however it manifests. Starting 2023 today. I’m ready.