It’s sandal weather. I’ve been wearing them on my long walks around the neighborhood. Can it be called a neighborhood when it comprises a majority of the city? I miss the pace of the city. And the anonymity. I think I had stopped taking long walks when I moved to Montana because people would remember me here. The thought of being in a stranger’s memory felt unnerving, and that thought kept me from walking. I recognize the contradiction. I write to leave a legacy, to be remembered. Then why does being seen by a stranger feel unnerving?

I woke up yesterday to the words mentally ill in my thoughts. Remnants from a dream, perhaps, or a warning by some higher power. When I was in college, I saw a therapist every week for two and a half years. I took Zoloft and started journaling. Maybe there’s a correlation here, but I can’t see it. Maybe if I keep walking I’ll figure it out.