Busy - brain all over

I've got a load of things to do, but I'm feeling pretty light. Pretty confident. I'm sure I can get it done, which a few days ago was not how I was feeling. Reading Gilead again. God Damn, though I'm not sure the letter writer would appreciate my saying that. But, God. . . Damn. So full of passion. That's how I want to be.

The snow has been good to me, and I'm excited to buy tough winter boots and a tough winter jacket, and take long and winding walks through the negative temperatures. I know I probably shouldn't. I know that I will. I like being out in it, how after a while you don't feel cold, so that once you come back in the regular warmth burns so hot that the heat won't leave your skin for hours. Close enough to frostbite, I suppose. Not that it's that's cold yet. Just remember past winters and enjoying the one that's fallen gently but steadily in.

I bought body butter to stave off the itchy tightness of dry skin, honey and shea. I want to call it Bee Balm, especially because it's from Burt's Bees.

I'm thinking about writing. About passion in writing. I tried writing a poem without putting a piece of myself in it. It's a miserable poem. I know exactly what I should not do now though.

Third person is the hardest way for me to write... It's an actual challenge and I feel as though I don't do it often enough to have ever done it well.

I'm dissatisfied with my hair right now. I kind if want it to be much longer than it is, though I've also said I'm chopping it all off again come summer. We shall see, I suppose. My roommate, Musa, believes that cutting my hair off again is going to look great. She even likes the picture of me with short hair on my license. And no one like license photos. Hahaha. Very sweet of her.

Anyway, my concern is growing it out again. So many old women these days have short white perms but I quite like the idea of a long white braid, when I'm old enough to have white on my head (that isn't snow).

Aging. Such an odd thing.

I just wanted to jot some things down to prove to myself that I'm not forgetting about this writing project I've undertaken. I hear from some sources that trying to write frequently/consistently is the best thing to do. I don't think I'm disciplined enough to achieve it at the moment. Though I do find the idea quite romantic and I've always been a bit of a romantic, and an idealist.