My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair. I feel almost as if I was born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness.

This piece of writing was handwritten on a tablet back in late January. I’ve made some minor additions and deletions. My control over my writing is identical to my control over how I live. Acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t even think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.

This plateau of solitude and especially with yourself; with all your flaws. Integrity is more critical; be proud not just for yourself, but because someone out there needs you.  Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft, and no matter how many sweaters I  put on, the seclusion tugs at my bones. There are not a lot of senior soloists that reside in my village, the majority are family mothers, fathers, and grandparent saints.

If I am drawn into a canvas of what seems my destiny, I draw the opposite silhouette.  I am the light against the dark.   The green light in my head reminds me that I have some passion for almost everything that God and man created.  I just can’t decide which passion to follow. Should I do a  museum, gallery, lecture, cruz the country roads, go to a concert, dance at a club, engage strangers in conversation, watch old movies, or read more of the stacks of books on my bedside table. Should I interview the straggly teenagers in the park or hit up the high rollers? Should I write, submit or edit:  clean the laundry room, make a fancy dinner, iron my clothes or clean the refrigerator. Living unstructured is a discipline that threads easily some days, and when it doesn’t, I have to control my passion for daydreaming.