The turn inward, the turnaround, the turn outward. Seasons turn. I've been journaling these last many months, but that was not for you. That was for me. And now I wonder what happens if I write for you, for me, again.
Greys and blues out to the horizon, and muted lichen green. The ficus blanched in the summer, wilted in the winter, curled in on itself from overwatering. The soiling of all natural wilds, the unwilding of the whole planet, so many microplastic beads streaming through the night sky with their carcinogenic albedos. So many mylar baloons drifting on geoengineered trade winds.
It's hard not to retreat into poetics, when I want to face the world, when I want to write for the world. It's comforting to know that I won't mention this, won't tell a soul. I will just send it on the wind.