There has to be a secret, somewhere that I should know. Something that someone was telling me when I was daydreaming about my books.
That would explain why I am having an identity crisis. The only thing that made sense, that prompted a spark of recognition was something that I read this morning. "I'm now beginning to think the entire human experience is putting up that cheery front and not letting the cracks show through. I'm a bad human now."
Work, commute and an urgent need to check off things from a list is stretching me paper thin. There is a shell being built somewhere, just the right size for the Goldilocks in me.
Where's my baby bear?