I've been wondering what to do; I'd give anything to talk to you

A big couple days. I'm so tired and wrung out. Should be in bed, because I think I might be coming down with something, but instead I'm drinking tiny cups of sake and looking at things I wrote. When my head feels like this, I want to play with my little stories. I wish I could write something good right now. I want to have that feeling like being excited to get into a scene or a piece, but tonight, I'm just re-reading old stuff. 

I like to write seasonally. I want to write summer stories and bright, happy scenes in the summer. In the darker months, I write colder things. The thing I'm looking at tonight is a sad story, one that has come to mean a lot to me, but it ends on a scene in summer. It all was enough to make me a little soft and dreamy about a season that didn't actually pass too long ago, even if I'm relieved the unseasonable late autumn warmth has finished. It makes me all feel a little dumb and vulnerable.

Being home this weekend was odd. I felt a strange doublethinking, like I could see fields I had once loved that had become shopping centers as vividly as the shopping centers. I could sit on my living room step-down, where the wood floors meet the carpet, and remember when I was a teenager and my house was the first house framed out in an empty meadow, and I sat on the boards in that exact spot and let my legs dangle into the basement. Strangely inhabiting of my old self, with all her faults, bitterly-sad naivete, and charms. Hard to hang out in that headspace when I've been feeling a little disconnected otherwise.