If I were to write a diary here, I would say. I would say, dear diary, I am in love. With what, well I could not begin to tell you. I do not know for myself.

The solitude in the hour before dawn, perhaps. Listening to the wind whistle through the hole under the radiator. That coffee I have at 5:30am before the gym when my family is fast asleep in their beds and I have a few moments to just ..be.

I don’t ever ‘be’ though because my mind is elsewhere, planning for other ‘be’s which are never ‘be’s because my mind during those ‘be’s is in yet another ‘be’. What does it mean to just ‘be’?

If I were to write a diary here I would say I almost married a doctor, except I did not almost marry him, I did not entertain the thought of marrying him at all, and the man I did end up marrying, was the one I had wanted to marry since I was eleven years old. The world is old and ancient and spinning on its axis, but once every so often it catches your eye with its own rheumy ones, sighs a dreary, earthy sigh, and there. You have one of your moments to just ‘be’. It was always meant to be. The trees knew it, the mountains knew it, the tempests which curled their fingers around the waving grasses knew it.

If I were to write a diary in here today I would say that Eliza’s child gave me the most adorable hug, and kissed my cheek upon leaving my home. In the same breath she told me she was very happy to be going home as she did not want to be in my house anymore. I laughed and Eliza laughed because at three years old, the world is so very simple, and two juxtapositions can dance merrily together.

If I were to write a diary in here today I would say that I am starting to get SAD, not ‘sad’, but SAD, as the nights draw drearily closer to the mornings, as the icy winds whip and bite even though the sun shines, as the days become bitter, harsh, and turn a cold shoulder to the adventurous spirit. I would say that I don’t have enough social interaction to fill my cup, I would say that I need my house bursting with the warmth of PEOPLE, I would say that winter is a time to make warm soups and hot drinks and share food, share light bulbs, share laughter, share plants, share soil, share beds.

If I were to write a diary in here today I would say that on the 25th of November, as Midwinter hurtles towards us with terrifying speed, as the creatures of the night roam ever closer to our periphery, as the moon looms large through the spindly ebony branches of undressed trees, I would say that I am in love with the beauty of this earth, and in the same token pained severely by the morbidity of life, and content, so so content, with the fact that we all have fates and they are all scheduled for us, and that fates are not set in stone, and so one must always gather one’s scruples, tie one’s horses, speculate on one’s plan, and get up, and carry on.