full of things that can live and die like never before. This is the opposite of the deliberate life. The only thing deliberate about it is that I am letting it be. For some reason I think the tulips on my desk are just as beautiful dead. I have yet to remove them.
I cannot create what I plan to. I am indiscriminate. But I have no time for parties or doctor's appointments. There is a mess and an excess, the counter covered in sloppy cutting boards.
I have made a lurid orange hat. I have written a poem, and so failed to study, and so failed an exam. I have written a perfect essay for a perfect mark. I have run and injured myself. I have made innumerable cakes.
I am earning money I cannot decide how to spend. Though suddenly I want a pile of soft yarn for a project, an expensive blender, I don't buy anything. I've pulled out my old clothes.
We fight so much that it's quick to make up. We've been sparring over ethics and literature (is it as important as math?). We spend a lot of time in bed. A lot of time sleeping. One of our pillow cases that I embroidered is missing; we think it's been stolen from the laundry room.
I have dissected one giant seed or pit. I am sprouting another in a cloudy jar. Soaking beans and lentils in odd bowls. There is mold in the potted plants, and my shoes are wet.
I have been given something which I am taking randomly, without forethought, before the gift disappears. I am reading science one minute, detective novels the next. Along with abs and biceps have come four pounds. Along with midnight work has come noon sloth. And improper breakfasts and powdered hot chocolate. It is all--equally--true and romantic.