Sitting here trying to write, I've discovered that content has no momentum. Just a pleasant, tingly lightness that you can exist in for a few minutes. This makes it very difficult to write, since writing requires momentum--not necessarily motivation via anguish or bliss, but an inertia that stems from life and expels itself on the page. But right now I am content. The weather is cool and light, my room is halfway clean. I'm listening to the sound of the pages of my book being blown by the wind and watching the sun move across the windowsill, stretching closer to the small plant waiting patiently for it's arrival. I will not take these things for granted, and this I think is what gives my content the inertia it needs to settle here in letters.

Leaf buds on the tree outside.
Laughter in the hall.
Light white curtains catching the breeze.
A new short haircut.
Finding the perfect song for the moment.
Fresh sheets and a neatly made bed.
Being alone and sleepy with a well-loved novel.
A sketchbook and pencils within reach.
The calmly ecstatic anticipation of reunion.