Reflections on an American Life Part II
I hesitate to describe the past few days as "lonely" only because I hesitate to describe the past few days. But that's how it happens, I think. Sooner or later it just becomes tiring being that person. That person.
I went for a long walk after getting home Saturday evening -- only a few minutes after an unspokenly dramatic exit from a social gathering in which I did not particularly feel like partaking. I hadn't done the walking thing in a long time, but it felt liberating. Cold and stale, but liberating. I think it's a blessing that the streets of Bloomington have yet to become so familiar to me . . .
It was almost four when I returned to my gracious abode on Dorchester Drive, but sleep remained elusive. I read for a while and, as soon as I could distinguish the faint echo of dawn forcing its way through my bedside window, I retrieved my tennis racket from the confines of Svetlana.
There's something almost holy about a tennis court barely lit in the morning haze, and I pounded the ball from one side of the net to the other, walking laboriously after each renegade bundle of fuzz. But, when I zipped the racket back into its cover, and returned home for generic-brand Lucky Charms, I was left once more with my thoughts. People like me should not be allowed to think.
Last night it was the basketball court. Then a meager attempt to serenade the streets of south Bloomington with the sounds from an infrequently-used clarinet. And then a phone call.
I was asleep well before midnight, and when I woke up, famished and groggy, the world seemed a happier place. But that's how it happens, I think. Every time. Every fucking time.
Every. Fucking. Time.
I went for a long walk after getting home Saturday evening -- only a few minutes after an unspokenly dramatic exit from a social gathering in which I did not particularly feel like partaking. I hadn't done the walking thing in a long time, but it felt liberating. Cold and stale, but liberating. I think it's a blessing that the streets of Bloomington have yet to become so familiar to me . . .
It was almost four when I returned to my gracious abode on Dorchester Drive, but sleep remained elusive. I read for a while and, as soon as I could distinguish the faint echo of dawn forcing its way through my bedside window, I retrieved my tennis racket from the confines of Svetlana.
There's something almost holy about a tennis court barely lit in the morning haze, and I pounded the ball from one side of the net to the other, walking laboriously after each renegade bundle of fuzz. But, when I zipped the racket back into its cover, and returned home for generic-brand Lucky Charms, I was left once more with my thoughts. People like me should not be allowed to think.
Last night it was the basketball court. Then a meager attempt to serenade the streets of south Bloomington with the sounds from an infrequently-used clarinet. And then a phone call.
I was asleep well before midnight, and when I woke up, famished and groggy, the world seemed a happier place. But that's how it happens, I think. Every time. Every fucking time.
Every. Fucking. Time.