Beauty Ninja

Its almost 6am. I've been up all night puttering around my nice little studio apartment. Heard the roosters crow at 4am down the street. The air is flowing like a smooth icy ribbon in through the window. I know I only have about two more weeks alone in this somewhat nicely finished, somewhat favorably situated habitat of mine. I'm moving to a different corner of town... less glamorous, more affordable.

Trading immediate semi-gratification in the hopes of one day being able to afford to buy a place of my own. My new apartment will have roommates, and wall to wall stained carpeting (barf), and slightly dingy white walls, and a considerably lower monthly bill.

It's ok. I've been a bit lonely here to be honest. And although I'll miss the roosters and geese that cluck and crow down the street, my new bedroom in my new place has a wonderful big tree whose large green leaves constantly shuffle in the wind right outside my very large bedroom window. That, and a garbage disposal in the kitchen, woot!

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Maybe it is a by-product of maturing, but I'm feeling less and less like I want to blog. I just don't feel safe sharing all my innerness with the outernet like I did when I was a dumb kid. I can post about poems I like, or news stories that incite me. But I love exploring the world of feeling, and yet don't want you reading about mine really anymore. I've got a diary now that'll be tucked away in my new room in the shifting shadows of that rustling tree. Whenever I've written in a hard bound diary I've wondered at who would find it and read it one day- would it end up in some dusty attic, or some garage sale, or some granddaughter's hands? Should all my emotional strum and drang be filed away in that time capsule... it's energy and passion softened and perhaps made protectively palatable by the passage of lots of time... instead of instantly published to the universe online? Yeah, I think so now.