Margin of life.

I went running this morning and it smelled like birthday candles. It made me reminiscent of being eleven. I did not like the birthday candle smell when I was eleven. I was determined to be ten forever back then--it had to do with Peter Pan. That was the day that dream ended.

I wrote for an uncommon amount of time last night. In a good story. It makes me glad. I especially like the tense I'm using. It's a new thing for me.

I was thinking today about life. Most of my friends are either beginning relationships, getting married, or running a marathon. It's a sure point in life. Stable, rhythmic, determined. It feels planned.
I feel like a bird.
Flittering, fluttering, anything but sure. I scramble to get things done. I only finish halfway. I don't make huge decisions. I move slowly. I am undecided, unestablished, and I read too much. I am not in a relationship. I am not getting married. And I only run two miles in the morning and am not planning on doing a marathon anytime soon.
Everyone else is planting their roots. And I, I am still a bird.
It's a good feeling. But not in other aspects. It's almost like I'm ten again. Not wanting to be eleven. Not enjoying the birthday candle smell. But I still have the option of Neverland up my sleeve. I enjoy that. I would like to paint Neverland on the bottom of a bowl and keep it forever. When I wake up bleary-eyed in the morning and eat my cereal I would get there. I would get there every morning.

I think it's because I'm a writer.
I was really contemplating it on my run. Why I don't care that I don't have a boyfriend or a diamond on my finger or 26.2 miles under my belt yet.
I find pleasure in being able to take time to do things I love. Breathing space. That's what it is to me, a breathing space. The ability to write lists and determine my route. To flutter. I like sitting in my wheat colored bedroom and crying over fairytales and painting pictures. I like planning to be surprised. I like thinking.
I have all this time, glorious time, to think.
It's exactly like Georges Perec says at the top.
I invest. I travel. I transition. I write. Those are all things that I do now. Things that take time and beat their wings hurriedly. The joy that blooms in my being when I sit on my sofa till 10pm and scrawl out words that I'm not even sure make sense, it's almost unexplainable. But that's it. It's just writing.
It's just beautiful.

So my friends who are learning to love each other, who are choosing to become one, who are running further than I want to, cheers to you. Bravo. Stability is admirable.
But I think I'll scramble for a little while more.
Maybe just till this novel's finished.