on this day i smell of oranges, ginger and oregano oil. the giant, ancient oak trees loom overhead like kind older brothers. and the hot southern sun shines behind them, sometimes slivering through and onto my shoulder. i am trying to be patient here. to be peaceful. but the future is too exciting. and i am writhing. sitting still has never seemed like such a difficult task. i am so afraid of waiting too long. will i be too withered, eventually too despondent and discouraged to move. or will i end up let down again. i want to blow all of this out of my brains. there is so much to be done. for this grand novel. that only resonates within myself. how do i do.