Well, it's not quite eleven yet. That's progress, I suppose.

I feel like I'm drawing more and more inside myself.

Not sure what is causing it, but I feel less like sharing and more like basking in my own mind.

Maybe it's a lack of puzzles to work out, or maybe it's me just mellowing out, getting into the groove.

It's likely my busy, busy life that leads me wasted at the end of each day, trying to keep up. It's a race that never ends, really.

My thighs are twitching lightly, each heart-beat a spasm, warm, fresh from biking.

The bar patrons across the street have their voices funneled up the alley and into my bedroom window.

Roman might be coming out to visit sometime this summer. Just for a few days.

Trying to suppress my excitement, trying to remember that six dozen things can happen between then and now, and my fantasies, even ones as simple as a visit, never actually happen.

Trying to suppress my drive to do. Get it done, move it along.

Just lay back and be mellow. Picture myself floating on my back in a pool, drifting aimlessly, enjoying the heat of the sun and the wind across my skin, the smooth silk blanket of water flowing against me.

What happens is what happens.

In the meantime, we keep on trucking.

Talking less and less to people. Learning more about the superficial conversation, learning more how to keep what I'm thinking inside.

I suppose that means I'll lose part of my charm. Mutual self-disclosure is such an effective bonding tool.

But there are other ways to connect, other ways to be.

Twenty-six and sometimes I feel like an old woman sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, hours in thought, not a word spoken.

I wonder if I'm just losing that urge to share, to validate myself by sharing my thoughts with others. If that's what that is. I'm not sure. That whole... lack of self-definition I have, maybe my constant need to share, to discuss, is to have others... sort of define me? Not really give me terms, but acknowledge my existence, my thoughts, to a point of making me real and part of a "community", even if that community is as common as humanity is.

I've never really felt part of it. Humanity.

Always sort of drifting on the outskirts, using words as connectors. Trying to bridge that alien feeling.

So, perhaps, this lack of needing to share so much, so often, is a sign that I'm getting more comfortable with being me, and being on the outskirts, trying less to bond with others and spending more time just enjoying myself, my mind.

Interesting.