I went for a walk.
I feel better.
But only just.
I have a calm pretense, but inside I'm still writhing.
“Time out” is bad for me. I don't like thinking. I don't like remembering things.
Some idle, out of order, musings; before I get on with it:
In high-school my Japanese teacher said she went to Mt. Fuji and standing there, she felt like jumping. The kids in the class thought that was strange, but I knew what she meant.
I went for a walk, with no shoes on. I only walked out on to the street, and up the road a little bit. Slowly.
I came back, because I didn't have a destination.
On the street tonight, I realised that I don't like where I live. I don't like the people around me. I'd prefer to be far away from here, alone.
When I was growing up, I lived in the mountains.
My house was on a dirt track. It was one of two houses in the street, we had no real neighbors to speak of.
I had a place that I used to walk to in the bush when I was upset or just felt like being alone and thinking.
I used to sit on the rocks at the top of a cliff, and look out over the valleys.
It was always cold. It was always clean. It was invigorating.
I know that Mt. Fuji feeling. Sitting on top of a cliff, knowing that you could jump off it, is the closest feeling of freedom and significance that you can have.
I used to enjoy sitting on my cliff alone, for hours at a time, thinking.
Tonight, on the street, there was no destination. There is no cliff in the vicinity that I could walk to.
I need to be sitting on a cliff, alone, in cold, clean air in order to feel truly at peace.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of Mick.
I don't even know the date that he died.
I feel better now.
My chair is adequately positioned, my feet are cold and wet, and everything is silent.
I am clam now.