Smudged Moments and Skipped Stones.

I am walking through a landscape rife with rocks. I come home and slip into the words I've spent the day lacking. I moved around dedicatedly, carefully, meticulously. I lost myself in the bustle of the bistro, in the deafening, dizzying din, in all the things that happened around me and all the things that I did without thinking. I've worked from ten am to eleven pm for the last two days and now I finally feel like I have some breathing room before I must be at work in the late afternoon tomorrow.

I am stripping myself of all the things I've done this evening, yesterday evening. I am trying to pull all these fragmented, frenzied thoughts from my frantic head. I am leaning back, inside myself, breathing slowly, exhaling in studied breaths, watching each one fall, roll, off my lips. I open my mouth wide into yawns and try to hold my shaky eyelids still.

The night is wet and dark but the streets are shining, twinkling beneath the bright buzz of the streetlamps. This morning was bustling with a breeze, a cool autumn breeze which blew my hair across my face. I put it back up and looked up at the clouds, trying to ignore the building beside me, the building from where I had come. I saw a few birds flap their wings lightly and land in the little flower boxes which hang from the windows. I squinted into the noonday sun and sighed; I knew I had to spend the rest of the day and night indoors. By the time 3 o'clock came rain clouds had gathered and the sun had sunk behind them. I sat outside only briefly, my pen hoovering above a piece of paper, the words just out of reach. Before I knew it I was back at work, lost again and still my thoughts peered out shyly from the shadow of that lonely second in the sun.

I don't know what I thought, then, or the rest of the night. I let the words lose footing; I let them linger, unformulated and then I come home and try to etch them out of the events of the day. I vaguely mention things here and there. Every sentence I write starts with "I". But, is that not how a diary is supposed to be? Only, it seems there is no real evolution. That I describe the same things the same way. I am trying to capture the tone of the moment but the moments all smudge together.