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On Jane

On occasion I like to sit outside at Starbucks and breathe the cigarette smoke because it makes me feel that I am at a fair.

So much has changed for me lately inwardly and outwardly. I want to pause to take it in, but there doesn't seem to be time. All the things I want to try dart to the front and back of my mind on occasion and only their frequency gives me any clarity as to whether I should pursue that idea. I try to start with a blank slate each day, not wanting to carry over the previous day's ideas, which so quickly become baggage.

So despite my endless searching I can't really say anything for sure until it is soundly felt.

Today I have felt like Jane Eyre. A little older than the crowd, or perhaps born old. Desperately in need of a wardrobe update and a trip to the salon. This morning I looked at my black stockings and found them covered with cat hair. A dead giveaway of any introvert, not that I have anything to hide anymore.

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