During last night's sleep my brain was BUSY! Gawd, the people, places and times I dreamed about. The cabin in the mountains of Colorado where our family used to go. A flood. My old next door neighbor telling me it was no wonder the plumbing wasn't working because I'd done it all wrong. My first serious girlfriend was there. I was young; I was old. The guys I was in a band with in high school stopped by! What? Chaos and drama. I was trying to connect all the pieces in this dream, while at the same time thinking: what a ride!

Then I woke up. I didn't set the alarm, but woke up naturally after about five hours and fifteen minutes—my magic sleep number when I'm in the zone—which is weird, because I haven't been anywhere near the zone lately.

Yet, something is starting to change in here. Once I got out of bed, I had (what felt at the moment like) a powerful realization: All this writing so far hasn't really been 'writing' so much as therapy. Free therapy! As anyone who's read anything from this pile has seen, it's all about me, me, me: struggles, loves, fears, guilt, anger, wondering about what the future holds, wondering what the past means.

It's okay, I suppose, though. I can't afford a great therapist right now anyway. Maybe that's why OS connected with me so instinctively: because in addition to 'writing' I could also talk out transient thoughts and feelings, and get a bit of reflection from whoever happened by.

The impact of that just-after-waking moment is fading already. I've only been up forty-five minutes, though—still plenty of time for more fascinating insights to arrive. It's not yet dawn outside. I believe I'll take my recorder for a walk. Maybe something I write will make sense after I've walked.