Wind is a movement of high pressure to low pressure. To tease out an extended metaphor of this concept almost feels like low hanging fruit.

The movement of wind is a product. A product of a change that happens without care or regard of what will happen later. And yet, the wind creates infinitely more products. More impacts. Leaves on your porch. A tree branch on your car. It is a disruption.

I experience shifts of high and low pressure symbiotically. The 17-hour day, begun with a morning run and ended with a tallboy-drunk gossip session. In between are infinite products. The awkward encounter of not realizing someone knows what you're talking about. Or the exposed embarrassment of creating something imperfect.

I move toward moments of low pressure. The two hours slept-in, benchmarked by periodical slaps at the touchscreen snooze button. The walk to and from the car, illuminated by the meeting of my eyes to the buildings around me as I realize it's the first time that day that I've really looked at something larger than the interior of my home.

High to low pressure. High to low moments. Creates wind. Creates products. The cycle goes on. The challenge is living within this cycle. Disrupting it while at the same time respecting it. Making choices in hopes of an improved mood or future enjoyment. Or because of "what's right." And at the same time, sitting in a tight-chest discomfort of what responsibilities and events are coming up in the near future. Maybe a reframing of perspective and a change in behavior will allow me to ride these waves, rather than drown in them. I never did learn how to swim.

6:35 pm

I'm making this journal to place my thoughts somewhere in the big sea of the internet. A couple months ago I thought I was going to post on Substack. I found the interface clunky and I think I put a bit too much pressure on myself. This site is great because nobody is reading. Unless you are, in which case, I give you a virtual kiss.

I've been feeling and thinking a lot about writing, words, grammar, and ownership (if we can even determine it) over those three things. I consider myself somewhat of a grammar stickler, in the sense that when I observe a grammar mistake that was clearly made out of a lack of care, I sometimes snicker to myself and delight in the small misfortune of somebody else's mistake. There's that one episode of Sex and The City, where Carrie receives a thank-you card from Natasha, Big's new wife, where she has mispelled "There" as "Their." Carrie gleefully relays to Miranda that Natasha is "an idiot."

However, there are times when I enjoy, and support a grammatical error. For one, I think pure lack of knowledge of a grammatical rule can make a mistake more endearing. I also think grammar can be broken purposefully for effect. My friends and I (not "my friends and me") have, for a while, participated in a ritualistic dropping of prepositional phrases. For example, instead of "can we go see that movie tonight?" we may say something like "we go movie tonight?" All's to say, I have imperfect and hyper-subjective rules around grammatical accuracy.

I am going to make an effort to try and not self-check my grammar as much when writing and uploading to this journal. I still don't have a full grasp on how these writings will differ from the journal entries that I hamfistedly write in my (physical) journal, which I write typically when I'm in the heat of the moment or when I feel like I need to clear some ideas out of my head, like how one would sniffle-and-swallow when they must free a collection of snot from the top-back of their combined throat-nose pathway. I'm also going to try and only proofread one or two times, a luxury that my handwritten entries are never afforded.

Okay.

I walk home
Exhaled, shoulders down
Stretched and massaged from another workday, workweek, gone

Hoodie held limp at my side
Sun beating down with a friendly wash
I underestimated her power this morning

My hair in all sorts
Each direction, pushed and pulled by wind
I underestimated her power, too

It's moments when the mirror is pulled away from in front of me
The rug out from under me
It's those moments I feel human again

Bumblebee hovers in front of me with an untouched puddle's stillness
It is round, pregnant with instinctual thought
Find a flower, suck out the sugary juice

I wish to move like the bee