I love reading books and stories. Other people’s words. And then their comments on the book I’ve just read. More words. I can suspend my own jugement. I only have a feeling in me and can give into it, perhaps creating some movement, a melody, a desire based on it.

And then whatever questions are left in my mind, like an itch inside me, scratched by those other’s thoughts, other’s articulated experience.

I would like to have a xylophone, and go play on it on a sunday morning like this. I have a gong, but next to it, a small xylofone would bring me pleasure. I would just go and play it right now.

I also feel like my stomach is too much in my middle, perhaps because of all the chocolate and cookies I have eaten in the past few days.

Do I like the story of the Diving Pool? How do I feel about it?

I don’t know, and I don’t need to force myself into thinking.

I can focus on seeing spaces that I am auditioning for my next home.

I can decide that it doesn’t matter, whatever I think, and nobody is forcing me to figure it out. I can stay with it, and I can read what everyone else thought about it.

I like hearing their words.

I don’t enjoy the doubt that comes with my own.

Is it any good? Is it right? Is it useful? Am I ok? Should I be different?

I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to work on my delivery. I don’t want to think about how to present anything. I just want to be.