The rain finally cleared out the smoky haze that's been hanging over the valley for the last few days from some fire or another. I wasn't able to see Elliot's knob out my back window for days, and the view up on Furnace hiking this weekend was quite blunted. On the hike, I overheard my friend's 14-year-old telling her dad "Jess is a trail runner" which was funny; I don't know where she got that from. I'm sure I didn't tell her anything like that.

I am having a hard time. I wondered what the point of writing in this thing was. I feel closed out; why should I put my feelings anywhere? Everything that felt so hopeful and open and earnest even two weeks ago feels shut up tight now. I feel like a fool for optimism, for the stupid little things I write about here, for my whole deal and personality. 

I had a dream last night that I was going through this ... tour? of a beautiful old ruined manor house in a crowd of people, and I saw some people I haven't seen in a long time. I sort of panicked because I realized I was dressed like shit, like I looked like a complete fucking mess and there's this general want for people you haven't seen in a long time to be at least a little favorably impressed with you, or at least, not think "wow, god, she's a wreck." I feel like the dream spiraled into some horror elements - my hair falling out, my teeth breaking, the things that happen in those kinds of anxiety dreams. My hair isn't falling out and my teeth aren't breaking (or at least, they are at a steady and expected rate) but that's how I feel inside: embarrassing, cringing and ugly. 

Well. The daffodils are blooming, how about that, huh? A man in the graveyard pulled up alongside me on my run and asked "am I going insane, or did I just watch you stop and hand feed a crow?" Welcome to it, buddy, I do lots of awful things.