I have been trying to discover the details of the painting that frightened me so last week, to no avail. In its own way this worries me more, almost enough that I am tempted to send one of my New York friends to the museum in search of it. How is it that in my overly-documented life I did not write any of this down? Something is amiss somewhere, and I'm idly worried that I'm imagining spooky paintings where no spooky paintings exist. This would hardly be a surprise.
As has historically been the case, my birthday is this weekend, and I am as always thinking too much. About how all of these days have slipped by so softly, about milestones missed not from a lack of trying but simply from a lack of succeeding. Feeling ever so slightly sorry for myself and softly blue. Aging doesn't bother me, but sometimes this lack of forward motion gets under my skin. Still, the fact that my main problem is essentially just that my waters are too calm means that there is no actual problem at all. To complain would seem ungrateful, and I am definitely not that--just spinning with all of this energy and nowhere to direct any of it. Making up spooky things that may not actually be there.