I didn't intend to blog today, but I felt weird *not* blogging, so here I am again.
I swear that it must be much later on in the week. Thursday at best. My eyelids are sliding down and so am I, already partially asleep on the awkward corner of my bed that serves as my "homework area". What utter nonsense; I'm not accomplishing much because I'm so tired. I won't move, either. My legs protest. My mind protests, too.
It's nearing that time of year when I want to sit down in the woods with a notebook and write. A small breeze encircling me in my solitude as I engross myself in whatever story I happen to be composing, a world of paper and imaginary lines.
As I run through workouts (of course we had another one today), I muse about the world around me. My running buddies and my teammates; I wonder what goes through their minds? As I drive down the road exactly at the speed limit, what do the people in the cars around me think? I like to compose their stories and their thoughts in my head. Maybe they're anxious to be home, or maybe they're fleeing a place where they find themselves drained of energy. Either way, I speed up. Imagining people complexly.
I've been storing up a file of inspirational quotes and pictures, tidbits of randomness. I guess I've been collecting such things for a while, pictures on my computer, words in my falling-apart Moleskine (I need a new one, I carried mine with me every day for seven months and it is rather sad now). My newest portfolio, if you will, exists in OneNote. I keep looking for more to add, but I suppose, as with everything, you cannot look for specific types of things. For it to be truly inspiring, it should just... come to you. Sneak up on you from the middle of nowhere, tackling you to the ground. Or just whispering, "hey, you!" before floating away as you grasp at clouds.
Is it November yet? I want to write a novel.