rejectomorph

There is a fine mist in the air tonight -- fine in both senses of the word --- and the world shimmers and glows though the moon is concealed by the clouds. Its light reveals the shifting patterns in the sky and illuminates the ground enough that I can see the pathways and the trees and the dampness covering them. Despite the chill, the mist and pale light lend a softness to everything, and I enjoy lingering outdoors, under my layers of shirt and sweater and jacket. There are few nights such as this in a lifetime, and I want to take in as much of it as I can.

The afternoon and evening I spent writing an e-mail which got out of hand. I have half a mind to post some of it, as it concerns the nostalgia I endure this time of year about which I have already made some entries. Maybe I'll rework some of it. Sometimes I have thought that writing about the past might make it more clear to me, but thus far it has only deepened the mystery. I continue to have no idea why I did the things I had no idea why I was doing. Or some such convoluted construction. I don't want to spend time trying to work it out right now. I want to go back out and watch the rare night. The nostalgia won't go anywhere. I've learned that for sure, at least.