Summer is gone. Instead, the rain has come and washed over its last traces, making me cringe inside and not feel like leaving the house. Fortunately, Sam is with me and I have to walk him, otherwise, I would have invented any number of excuses not to get wet. I don’t have rubber boots any more, I threw them out when I moved, suddenly they felt ugly and dirty (they were red!) and I couldn’t be bothered to clean them up. haha! Now I need to find a pair of black ones, so the dirt won’t show.
This days all I ever feel like doing is write, but it seems I have nothing to write about. It feels like stories are buried under my skin, where the thought can’t touch them, they need to be lured out and I don’t know how. Also I don’t feel like disclosing anything about anyone close to me, so all I can write about is me, but I don’t exist in a void, I’m a contextual person, so you see my dilemma.
The rain depresses me, I hate getting wet. There’s a grey mist outside my window and the cobwebs are heavy with rain drops. Some days I could give up the whole city for the prospect of living in a house with a small garden. I miss having a cat and I miss having a garden. I grew up in a house with my grandma until I was 13. There were not many flowers to speak of in our garden, but we had the freedom to step outside and sit under the quince tree. In spring the lilac tree was in bloom and in summer we could pick sour cherries straight from the tree. And the quinces started ripening about this time of year. It’s amazing how that never leaves me, I have this recurrent memory of sitting under the quince tree in a T-shirt, dangling my legs.
I should get going. I have lots of errands to run and no energy whatsoever. I could sleep the fall away.