There is about things this sense of leave - taking, of journeys begun and begun again - this suggestion of travel, this hint of a possible elsewhere.SK/PS There is such confliction about me. On the one hand, I'm still in a bit of a fugue, slave to the routine, longing so desperately to let my mind flow with the cumulonimbus clouds, wanting to catch my reflection in storefront windows in distant nameless towns. My travelin' bone's been itching me. But I am flowing through a time in my life where this just isn't an option.
On the other hand, my mind is alive, so much so that it seems to leave the rest of me behind. Yesterday, it got so vehement that I had to walk around at school to keep from jumping out of my body. I don't know what I feel, but it is INTENSE. I'm taking real chances in a few areas of my life. Luckily I trust those I'm taking my chances with, but I still feel vulnerable. Things are not boring right now, that's for sure. I'd have it no other way.
I've realized that I can be no one but who I am. Maybe the way I deal with things isn't the right way, but it is my way. The people who give the best advice are often the ones who take no chances themselves. I can just do my best - most days that's good enough, some days it's not. People respect my honesty, just as I appreciate their's.
Sarah and I took a lamplit walk through the rich neighboorhood just to the east of Purdue Calumet last night. There is something about seeing streetlights under spreading canopies of leaves that just blows my soul away. Light is the first element of creation, and there is something very elemental in that. I wish more people would see the lights. I've been down (thanks for all the concern about my last posts, though it was really quite unwarranted) but I've never stopped noticing the lights, I've never given up my hope or my fierce and desperate love of all that I hold dear to me.
And now...some levity.
Marge: Homer, name one of your son's friends.
Homer(preoccupied with TV): The fat kid with the thing...you know, the little weiner who always has his hands in his pockets.
Marge: Homer, they asked for a name, not a vague description.
Homer: Alright, Hank.
Marge (agitated): Hank who?
Homer: Hank...Jones.
Marge: Homer, you made that up!
That is so funny! Yowser.
I'm singing and singing, Your eyes they just roll/ It sounds like someone else's song from a long time ago JT

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