Thunderstorm outside. It's the first real good rain I've seen in weeks. Atlanta is in a big-time drought, and this is a literal and emotional relief. It looks like the rain itself is slackening off, but just a minute ago it was cascading from the eaves, in a broad curtain that sparkled like a bank of icicles in the light from the ceiling fan. I've missed this.
The other day I had a long and involved dream about being Peter Pan. It is probably tied for first place as my subconscious' least subtle dream message. Three weeks before my first real career job, I'm fantasizing about the boy who never grows up - refuses to, in fact. I'm shaking at the lack of time left to me.
(The other least subtle dream has also been this summer, perhaps a month ago. I won't name names, but it boiled down to someone I know chasing me through a variety of landscapes, quite literally preventing me from finding happiness with anyone else. When I woke up, I couldn't help but regard the whole thing as mournfully appropriate.)
The icicles are back. Narrower this time, but still beautiful.
I want to go to a waterfall. Or live near a waterfall. Or live in a waterfall.
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