It’s already so hot.

I really ought to stop going to the desk right away. Is this just the pitfall of having your workspace in the bedroom?

I don’t even know what to do.

Already so very hot.

Right. What, exactly, is it that I want or hope to gain from pursuing this?

Everything else about today seems insignificant.

It looks like a vintage photo out here. Sepia tones and light streaks, and I worry about fire season.

“Self-determination.” There’s something about how she says it that, when combined with the conversations I listened to today and the goings-on of the world, makes me see that it is indeed enough to be so self-determined in the pursuit of my curiosities and dreams. Because that is a radical act; to be able to exercise as much agency as I possibly can.

I probably don’t need more books.

I sit in the hammock. It’s 102 degrees in the shade. The evening breezes are not as strong today. I can feel the sweat collecting under my arms.

I talk the plants as I water them; they all look so thirsty. I remind them that I’m learning and that I’m trying to understand the effects of the wind and the sun and the dryness.

It’s hard to not feel hopeless. I wonder how my parents have done it for so long. I wonder about the parents before them and before them. There is something there, I suppose. I am only here because they were hopeful enough.