Today, I am unusually sore. Sore from sailing. Sore from playing quartets (and laughing too hard at second endings). Sore from latent frustration. Sore from the aggravation of morning commutes. Sore from having so much to say and not being able to say it. Sore from a wrist that still recovers, ever so slowly. Sometimes it feels like the world becomes poetic, as if you put on a pair of glasses and suddenly the sunlight becomes radiant and expressive, and the trees that line the highway are not ornamentation but rather the very essence of your travels. Like a new set of eyes, a different vision, or perhaps just better words to describe your perceptions. Whether this acuteness is a cause or a result of soreness is yet to be determined.
In less poetic news, I missed acknowledging the one-year anniversary of the onset of my first job on June 2. A whole year. Amazing how much can transpire in such a small amount of time. Much abides, and much awaits.