I want to write. But right now, I feel I can’t. The ideas are churning around, and are too mixed up to come out coherently. So many topics. So many thoughts. So many observations, concerns, possible plans.

What I am grateful for right now is I have somewhere. Somewhere to write. Somewhere to be. Somewhere to live. Somewhere to think.

I have set up the second bedroom as an office. During the day, I work. And during the evening, I can watch shows, listen to music, relax. It is here I can write. Well, I could if my brain were more settled. But I at least have the place, the tools.

Here, I have the serenity I was seeking last year when I went to the farm. But without the solitude. Living downstairs from David and Pat, I am not alone. But I live as though I am. For although I have chatted to David each of the last few days, I got a haircut earlier in the week, and I am pretty sure Pat has not even seen it yet. It is the right mix between alone and not alone.

Maybe this is what peace is?

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