Not overjoyed. Not under a storm cloud. Somewhere on the broad continuum between.
More lively than stasis. Less agitated than…okay, yes. Less agitated than normal.
A bit sore about the gills, to mash up my metaphors.
Hungry. As I almost always am. For a food I’ve not yet fathomed how to eat.
Mr. Carle’s caterpillar never to turn into a butterfly [spoiler alert].
Tiburón, constantly swimming, and growing restless of it.
“Just-” Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
I was born too discomfited, too disdainful of the status quo, too infinitely hopeful of some imagined infinitesimal ‘better,’ to get along smoothly on planet earth. And I am a slow learner.
So I am still
Sometimes my little mood ring heart glows sad: wondering if I’ll ever be any different; wondering if it’s all been wasted effort; wondering if I’m really a dreamer; and are the stars just dim sham night lights?