lost in a puddle

The rain was heavy this morning. The scent of Spring is not yet here, and it felt as though the water held gifts the ground would still reject. I watched the patterns and rivers come and go on the cold windshield before driving, feeling comforted in the banality of a simple rainstorm. I asked a puddle if it had any political leanings, and thankfully, it did not.

The day came and went with no sense of urgency. Everyone kept their masks in place, with just enough authenticity to avoid detection. Maybe that's just me. My black wool can be rather unruly at times.

I came to my journal, wanting to write about the chaos in the greater world around me, and finding joy and escape in making dinner, feeding cats, sinking into a bath; simple things that ground me. The words tonight feel forced though, nothing really connects, like there is a wave of the ethereal weaving its way through my heart, but stopping short of the screen.

My words, my thoughts, are lonely and wanting. Like the ghost on the patio, weaving and dancing amidst the rain; I am only partially here. I must bid my soul its leave, and let my mind stop trying to connect or conjugate. Like the puddle, there are no affiliations to speak of, just a desire to meet air and pavement, and collect myself in a brief moment of being whole.