rules.

For the first time that I can remember (ever, I think?) I gave up on a book before I had finished it last night. I told myself I’d just skim a few pages and then start reading again, which turned into flipping the pages, not skimming, getting to the last page, letting the book close, and telling myself, Done. I gave the book a solid 75 pages of effort, and it just wasn’t a book I wanted to finish.

I’ve always felt like I can’t quit reading a book. I’ve felt like it would hang over me, forever and ever, and I would wonder if I missed something amazing. But here I am, feeling absolutely no guilt. Sometimes I can hardly believe the rules and parameters I place on my own life that just don't need to be there. Why? I don't know. But I do what I want!

J is working a lot this week, which usually means that I’m spending a bit more time alone and in my own head. Sometimes that makes for beautiful space, stretching out in front of me, and sometimes it makes for a claustrophobic room that’s packed with thoughts demanding my attention.

There doesn’t seem to be much else urgent or worthwhile to say tonight. It’s very cold and windy, and I’m thinking about how many layers I can wear tomorrow and whether I have the resolve to ride my bike when the wind chill is below 0. I’ve just finished my favorite solo-lady dinner of sardine toast and I’m listening this podcast and laughing to myself at their big words and pretentious literary jokes (which I love, by the way).

This new year has felt full so far, like I’m diving deep into life, into my own head.

It’s good.