I have the optimism born of being injury free (almost). I'm genuinely excited about me. About the things I have ahead of me, about my life, but mostly about me. It's a nice kind of a feeling; one I seem to remember from times gone by.
I'm excited about all the possibilities life is offering me. Excited about the multi day mountain bike ride which takes folk down through Wales, excited about the possibilities offered by the Lands End to John O'Groats ride, excited about the Brecon Beacons, ridge walking the black mountains, getting to the top of the Sugar Loaf, something which I simply stared at from a distance as a child. I'm oddly only mildly excited about the Dolomites this summer, other things seem somehow more immediate and have the added bonus of being things I have discovered I want to do.
I'm excited about moving house at some time this year. Excited about me in new surroundings, with the possibility of playing house. It reminds me ridiculously of childhood games in the garden with my brother and sister, oddly, a new home will make me feel like I'm playing house again. The old house, well, it doesn't offer many play possibilities any more. It's furnished, it's painted and there's every kitchen utensil under the sun in a big fat ceramic pot. My work here is done. But a new place, a new place. Mmmmm.
I'm even excited about the essay I'm writing which has encouraged me to get to grips with twentieth century writing about cities. Dublin, Harlem, they sound like places of dreams, even more so on reading the stories and the poetry, almost mythological in nature. If I ever go to either place I shall feel that sense of respectful worship on being given the privilege of being there.
It's exciting, yes?