I just saw some squirrels humping.
That is all.

I was reading this novel recently, the name of which is inconsequential to this entry so I will not include it, in which the protagonist mentions something about the concept of time and how it’s not always the same. That occasionally time can be "thick"or "thin" that is, have the perception of being longer or shorter depending on personal experiences within time itself. I know for myself, I don’t really think about time until it becomes an issue in my life. Like the time I have between now and when three term papers are due: three months, which seems like a long time now, but will feel like weeks or even days in a month or two. Anyways, what I’m really getting at is that time in my life right now appears to be quite thin…as if the days are running together. This doesn’t alarm me or disturb me a bit in the least, in fact, I love that I’m “here” again….that the time between my move from Vancouver and my return has seemed so “thin”.

It’s funny, I would never say this to my mother, but I feel as though I have returned “home”. I’ve lived in my hometown for over 19 years, but I feel like I don’t belong there anymore…that I don’t fit. When I am there, I feel restless and restrained. I become moody and depressed. I’m not sure what it is about Vancouver, but I feel alive here…it’s as though my anonymity in such a large and diverse city asserts me as my own unique being…not Jezebelle from “Small Town”, who’s friends with “this person” and dated “that person”.

It could also be the simple fact of my close proximity to the ocean. I’ve always felt deeply connected to water, more specifically the ocean. I often believe this is due to the fact that I was born into a water sign, but more practically is probably a result of my mother taking me to baby swimming lessons as an infant.

Since my return to Vancouver there has not been one day that I have not plunged my almost naked body into the frigid waters of the Pacific. The sensation of the cold water enveloping my entire body is gloriously addictive and the idea of the act being somewhat deviant to common behaviour is highly appealing as well.

At first, it's just me against the water. I never let the water beat me. I don't allow even the tip of a toe in the water before I let my towel drop to the sand and run full speed ahead. When the water hits my feet and my legs it's hard to resist taking in a deep breath of air and there's always a split second when I think to myself just before I dive my entire body into the water that I've made a horrible error in judgement...but soon enough my entire body is attacked by what seems like millions of tiny pin pricks. The first dive is always shallow and quick and I must resist the temptation to run immediately back out, grab my towel and run home. Soon enough though, when my body has become partly numb to the temperature of the water, I'm able to slip easily in and out of the water. I pretend as though I'm I fish gliding effortlessly through the water, jumping over and through the waves and in those 15 minutes of pure solitude I'm just a silly child once again, with nothing to occupy me but the movement of my arms and the friction of my feet against the water.

I guess what I'm trying to get at is that I'm happy... since everyone seems to be asking me lately.