written not today, but on aug. 7; however, typed today

Maybe this can be my refuge? This writing business, this busy-ness (no hyphen, I suppose), this journal, this pen, this exact moment of writing. I am currently experiencing full body chills. Dizzy spells. Dry spells in my attempts to read. The focus is there, but it's off doing something else and I must track it down. Does the hunt (less treasure, more point-and-shoot) begin with the pen? Am I, right now, in the process of hide and seek? I am, and I am simultaneously hiding and seeking. So I will search the corners, rummage through the drawers, peek into the freezer with a slight, ridiculous hope (it's always the last place looked, last because it is found and anytime it is found it becomes the last). I will claim that what I am looking for is solid, but you already know my claim is false-- and because of this, I am bashfully blushing-- I have been caught. But you can't see any of that because-- remember-- it's dark in here.