I am slowing down, not so conscious of time, which recently has been not so much as pressing as beckoning ... now I feel time can wait. What happens, happens. Nothing can now stop what will or will not eventuate. Everything lies in the decisions we make. I live quietly and now that that part of my life is over, for now anyway, I feel as if I have dropped some baggage from my mind. Yes, I leave out many things that matter, and I dissemble on the subject of my inner life because it is in such a fluid state. When I write about it I do so as though it has set fast, even for a moment, in some way. But what is my real purpose? I cannot avoid the show of emotion or personal feeling and if I try to explain the circumstance that led to my decision, what would they think! Perhaps these thoughts are beneficial for my inner life. There seems to be a metaphorical confusion in this: if the inner life is in need or air, how come it takes place in the least excessible part of my being? Perhaps there are clues here to the nature of humaness? There may be clues, but the mystery to myself is insoluable as ever!