one perfect joy.

It's spring, and I feel like writing poetry. So I wrote one. One tiny, tiny poem. Unoriginal as I am, I named it "spring."
I don't think I'm a poet, actually. But it's fun to try it anyway. I've been feeling like everything in my life could be a series of poetry. Maybe I'll publish a book one day.

I'd like to write a collection of stories from the barn, and from our lives, and publish them all together in one book. Once I am finished with school and can really focus on something that's for me (and not for grades), I think I'll start on it. So many important things happened. There is so much to tell. So much for the world to understand about our summers and winters and all of the things that happened to us because of that one, obvious, common thread that connects us all.

It's 11:30 PM. I have to go to work tomorrow, but I wish so bad it was a weeknight so that I could watch my favourite late-night television shows before falling asleep. I have fallen asleep during so many interviews on Late Night. I have forced myself to stay awake through those first, funny sketches.

I rode my horse today, for fifteen minutes until he was sweaty, and I was out of breath. We are so out of shape, the two of us. And I am always in a hurry. I just want to go outside and gallop around. Seriously, that's what I want to do with my hundreds of dollars per month: have unlimited access to galloping around in Albertan fields. I spend a winter full of debt for that one, perfect joy.

This is the beginning of a full week.