Signs of rain: wet ground, heavy dawn, an untrustworthy sky. Smell of water in the air. Rumble thunder in the near distance. Today I confine.
The way I sleep and wake contingent on weather. Last night: woke at three for a storm and asleep at six for its aftermath, the dark that follows.
Cat rebuking me with her eyes as I leave the bed.
Today I noticed my dreams have become melancholy: tears for a love lost in ways that were never mine. I noticed my eyes leaked on waking.
Today I noticed reluctance to paint, for the first time this season. A symptom? Art becoming just a job? Or loss of momentum, not having painted in the weekend? Push on, Marion. Painting is not writing. The path is always apparent.
Am I afraid of succeeding?