Hitching

The chalk reads: "Bro, can I get a hand on the bus... I'm waiting 4 my ride."

A small robot, waiting for a bus in Kirkland, Washington.

There was a version of me, once, that would have done things like this. I don't know what happened to my sense of play, only that at some point I mislaid it, and haven't seen it since.

It was likely a very long time ago. I seem to recall that serious Aaron was quite serious, even as a teenager. I think that this is why I so easily latch on the the whimsy that other people leave out in public; I've gone so long without my own.

Remembering when one is one's own most strident critic is more difficult than it seems. Even though I understand that the only think that gives the judgements of others power over me is my fear of such judgements, I can't easily let go of the sense that anything I do can, and will, be used against me. And so I spend more time than I should conforming to the dictates of my Inner Critic, on the chance that doing so will, this time, since the voices I have ascribed to it.