new years day foggy babble…

was asleep by 11:30 last night. didn’t care about new years eve-ness. don’t like to party and never have i related to the “woohoo” feeling. actually, i was still falling to sleep by midnight and heard everyone woohoo along with the booming of fireworks going off somewhere downtown. made me giggle a little, due to the predictability of the manufactured nature of holidays. midnight is here, time to look at lights in the sky, yell woohoo, feel sad if have nobody to kiss or happy if you do, blah blah blah. iconoclastic me. let me balance out the scales by saying that rituals are a beautiful aspect of human nature and there is nothing wrong with enjoying them. i enjoy ritual too but just not the rituals fed to me by culture. this does not make me any better or worse than anyone else. i am not on any mountain tops. only expressing my feelings is all. you have your feelings. we are a bouquet of feelings. talked with kyle all night and we did engage in new years eve ritual by making long drawn out beautiful deep toasts to the year ahead in between our endless dialogue. a thick fog is rolling into the city right now and i love it. the buildings are barely visible through the milky silky beauty of the fog. fog is one of my favorite things. suddenly a vision: me living in a house where often i walk into the back yard early at dawn to watch the fog as i drink a cup of coffee. talk about luxury. wow, the fog has smothered the visibility of the buildings now. out my window i see only a wash of bluish-white. mystery. burning jasmine incense and happy to wake up early enough to catch this. though it is not that early. eight thirty. the fog reminds me of my year ahead, walking into the unknown, becoming a new person again. can i embrace the mystery? yes, i want to embrace the mystery. i want to be soft like fog too. my craving for softness feels as vast as fog. a craving to write something not for school, long, creative, and vast encompasses me. i forget how to do that. been since 2014 since i wrote any length of fiction past five pages. feeling like a hermit. the desire to move away from culture more and more. the desire to spend more and more time writing. this is the longing for home. to have a stable base from which to write from. no more cafe writing. i am weary from the city. i wonder if this feeling will last? i want space so bad. my work will keep me connected to those i help while my other work needs hermitage to write in order to give back. seized by the desire to work. i love to work, i guess, but my work is fulfilling because it is creative and filled with love. i feel lucky to be this michelle creature. i get to be this michelle creature. you get to be you. we are being these separate creatures here on earth. puts me in awe. the fog is reducing my thoughts down to basics and opening up the mystery inside of the basics. i feel amazed by this life…

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