I don't get nervous. I try not to get excited. I am not used to 'good things' happening to me. I am superstitious. Will I jinx myself? What if this is all a dream? So many dreams die in the womb of imagination, never quickening into existence.

It's closer, getting closer, and yet I still can't feel it in my grasp. When is it okay to feel it? When is it okay to say it aloud? Am I an imposter?  I feel safe in the liminal. I feel content in the drift of never knowing, letting the rip tide of the mundane soak me through, never letting up.

But the mundane is so safe for so long. So calm for so long.

And then it begins. 
​
 And how will I handle it?

​This is my favorite time of the year and my worst time of the year (for maternal reasons).

 I like the dark, cozy mood of fall.

Autumn leaves, pumpkin everything and spices.

I love boots and sweaters.

 I have been struggling to make my own pumpkin spice drinks. It doesn't taste like the ones you buy in the cafes, but then again, those aren't made of pumpkins (just spices).

My mood goes up and then goes down.

I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it.  Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it.  Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.

And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.

I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but ​ I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.