I am beginning to see some truth to the adage that distress, to some extent, is at the heart of creativity.
Because I am just plain content.
And I feels like this leaves me with little to say.
Sure, things aren't perfect. There's always more work, and more work after that. Similarly, there is always a full collection of ludicrous anecdotes at my expense sitting in my back pocket.
Such as? Well, today, as I was attempting to walk home with arms full of cleaning surprise and a mop in hand (yes, awkward enough as is, especially for a member of the uncoordinated such as myself), the back of my well-loved shoes decided to burst along the seam. This means I was not only on the side of a busy road weighed down by loads of Lysol and a mop, but that I had to motor around by hopping on one foot while precariously pointing my other toe upwards.
However, other than such ridiculum, life just feels, well, nice. I'm enjoying this whole domestic thing. I like waking up to him.
And it feels like to say anything more than that would border on excessive.