The March of Time

Spent a long time tonight reading the journal of a formerly homeless woman who lived in her car among the streets of London. Anya has such a touching way with words that you feel as if you along with her for the journey. I wish I could write like that. Reading her made me depressed about my own writing abilities. I really try so hard – maybe too hard and that is my problem. I can be the most terrible perfectionist at heart and it is a terrible curse to bear. I am already predestined to failure due to my mental illness. At least, I have good intentions at heart. I have come a long way from my very auspicious beginnings when I began online journaling in 2004.

Woke very late from a nap with shafts of sunlight shining gloriously across the floor of my bedroom. I laid there as the shadow from the big oak beside my driveway slowly marched across the floor as the sun set. I watched mesmerized as the world turned with me upon it and time seemed to pass so much faster than normal. I could also hear the voices of children playing outside in the late afternoon sun, as well. Luckily, it wasn’t voices in my head as I first thought.

The thunderous clap of a baseball bat hitting a baseball rang out just outside as I soon sat in my lazy boy trying to wake up. I got out of my chair to stand at my den’s window as I smoked a cigar. The neighbor’s kids have a new batting cage and pitching machine. I watched as one child fed balls into the machine as each baseball came shooting out like a bullet to meet with the head of that bat in the child’s swinging hands and arms. The child batting would squeal with joy and ready himself for anther swing at home plate. It brought back fond memories of me and my brother doing similar things in the yard of my childhood home when I was a young child as well. Oh, to be a child again. I take comfort in that I will always be young at heart.