Ten.Eight Hundred & Twenty-Two
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3 am.
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4:15 am. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep.
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I begin to walk up the hill, up to the bench so that I can see the sun rise. The rustling sounds make me nervous; the grass is tall and I think I see animal droppings and I wonder if I should turn back. The wind is stronger up here and is blowing in my air. The third time I hear the whistle in my ear I turn around and head back down.
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The gift of being present with another person without the expectation of filling the space with noise. We sit beside each other speaking barely a word, turning our heads to the sounds of birds flapping in and out of the trees.
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Cold ears.
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I want to write but I decide I don’t. I can only think of one sentence to write and for whatever reason it doesn’t feel as though my journal can hold the weight of the words.
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So good to be with friends.
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Time is moving so slowly and that’s a good thing.
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Finally some figs.
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The moon looks so close. And the stars, my goodness, the stars.