I wrote a poem last night, and now I don't even remember what it was about. Must not have been very good.
I'm thinking today about history. How it's taught, how it's understood, how it's invented and altered and explained. Both in the context of the history we learn in school and our own personal histories. How it's always a matter of hitting the high points because it's too much to try to know it all. But it's not always the high points that really matter so much; it's the day in day out flow of life that makes us what we are, just as much if not more than the dramatic events we tell to others.
And I was thinking last night about the line in yesterday's poem, about being meant to be alone. Maybe it's not so much meant, as just able. Solitude can be a gift, the ability to be okay with nothing but oneself.