Foggy on the inside

Here it is, finally finally acting like spring — and I finally have the day off — and the sky is blue and the birds are singing, and all I seem to want to do is stay inside and listen to rainy day music and ponder things.

I tried a couple of times today to wander outside, to do something useful and seasonally appropriate, like garden, or wash my car, or take a walk past the river. I found myself unable to leave the property, wanting only to stay close to home.

I think I might be having a hermit relapse. The most I’ve been able to muster up the energy for is to take a couple of pictures of the lady’s slipper that has miraculously appeared near the back door. Then I took a nother couple of pictures of emerging plant life at ground level, lying on my belly and pulling in for an extreme close-up.

Now it’s fully gorgeous out (did I mention finally?), and I’m back inside, wanting nothing more than to listen to the sounds of my latest obsessions and to pad softly from room to room, idly picking up photographs of friends and past loves and getting lost in memory.

I choose to believe that there is nothing wrong with prefering my own company once in a while, and listening to the gentle, vibrating hum inside my head.

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