I’m tired…allergy season is upon me and it seems like this year it’s gonna be particularly rough. I feel like I’m sorta falling apart at the seams and simultaneously sewing them back up. A little stuffing drops out each time. My dreams have broadened, become richer and more verdant, but I still struggle to recall them. This distresses me. I don’t think I’m prepared for another summer in the city. It seems different now…the violence more palpable, the callousness in the streets hardened to an impermeable crust. I seek open fields with endless skies and not a building in site. I just keep blundering along, not really knowing what I’m doing at all. I miss writing…it’s like an old friend I keep meaning to call up on the phone. It’s a challenge for me to prioritize.  I shouldn’t have to prioritize that. But there’s no forcing it, either. I feel like I should know a few more things than I do at this point in my life. Other people’s lives fascinate me…do they also doubt themselves on a near-daily basis? Do they also feel like proto-adults? And by proto- I mean primitive. Ah well…another epic zen fail for the day.