A year ago I remember I had been wishing November too be longer, at the very least a day longer. But November has 30 days in it's month and always will. I guested at the house of Dad's side of the family for the first time in several years, and the last time, for sure, of several more years to come. I then began aching and tried very hard to retch out whatever it was inside me. A little bile on the bathroom floor but that was all I had managed to produce. And I remember the rhythmn of three-point-one-four-one-five-nine..... It's a song.
All I do these days these days browse MathWorld, chance upon my mother eating (ask for a bite, end up eating most of her meal anyways), go take walks for two hour intervals then feel sore afterwards.
When I take walks, I pace forth for a half-hour and back. And I do this twice. The first pacing feels longest, the return faster, the second pacing begins and I'm unsure what to make of time anymore, and I return slightly unnerved by the fact I will never comprehend the strange workings of what we call 'time'. I toss my glasses and socks to my bedside, crawl under my blankets because surely I won't actually be asleep! I'll do what I need to do for the day! Surely-- and then I wake to a new day.
What is routine? What is routine to me? I think of it a lot. Routines are always subject to change. That seems counterproductive, does it not?
I write more in my physical journal than elsewhere, there will probably be plenty to copy down digitally, and I find logging onto this laptop such a hassle. Usually I'm on the school-issued chromebook. I should lend Chrome only the smallest portion of my time and data possible, I know, I know, but see, I'm lazy.
I don't think ever I updated on the state of my umbrella I mentioned was missing from a month ago. Well, it has been returned. And this new layout of the logs is much easier on the eyes.