Okay, it's Saturday. I've gotten some rest, had a healthy meal, went to the library and checked out several books. In my pile of books are the authors: Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, Dorothy Parker, Joyce Carol Oates, Walt Whitman, Elizabeth Bishop, Flannery O'Connor, and Milan Kundera. I'm searching for inspiration. If I can't find it in those books, it isn't meant for me to find it this weekend. I've noticed how selfish I am in my writing and in a lot of other things I do or don't do. So often when I write poems, it is about my inner self and that has served its purpose in a cathartic way, but I feel this pull to remove myself from my writing - to be an observer of life and not step into the frame, but show others what I see and the significance of that snapshot as I interpret it in an emotional way that extends far beyond my own skin. Perhaps it is growing older and learning how short life is and how true happiness lies beyond one's own cluster...