Alive

That is the ultimate sensation inside me. I am alive, when my mother died I was not so sure I would be. But I am here, on the shore of what is the ocean of me. I am connected, I am cohesive, I make sense. I sustain myself.

I have been writing like mad, one of my friends every time he comes near me he creates a story inside me. I am nursing one of those, and a woman I met today--a sock fetishist--raved to me about socks that she got from Barcelona. Does anyone love socks that much?

How is the world so filled with life and stories, and I am such a procrastinator? Am I surviving or barely making it as a writer? Well maybe the ideas are alive in me. I read my astrological chart and it says I am due for much success in my middle age. I am not quite there yet...