It rained for the last three days. I got wet but it wasn’t until the depression hit me that I got soaked. I woke up to clouds on the fourth day but not to rain. By afternoon, the sun peeked through the clouds and my spirits lifted.
Warmth. Sparkling blueness. I should race but I don’t feel the need anymore. I’ll let the race take me where it will. I don’t care about victory any longer. I care about being outside and letting all the possible problems fall away from me like leaves during autumn.
It rains the sixth day and my morale sinks. What was is no longer. I’m a pretender, a faker. Seymour? Where’s Seymour? I like saying his name. You don’t meet many Seymours, and I think I keep him around so I can say his name. Don’t tell him, but I do the same for George. You don’t get many Georges in the world, and I like to savor each one.
Nice day. A bike ride by the park. Cars whizzing by on both sides. What’s the use of saying more?