(no subject)
Twenty-five minutes later, the night has turned chilly. I know for my schedule tomorrow, I ought to retire soon, but I'd so much rather be conscious to enjoy the night. I feel like I miss so much time in life by being either in bed or trapped inside my jobs. There are windows, but it doesn't feel like outside. There are people, but they don't feel like friends. There's food everywhere, but I never really enjoy any of it. Time passes and passes and passes, but I feel every heavy second tick. When I leave work, I'm tired from work. I feel discouraged and cranky, and I'm already dreading the next time I'll have to go in. What would I rather do? Travel. Travel by any means -- by car, by foot, by train or bus or hitched ride or bike or even airplane. I'd rather see places not usual to me, faces not familiar and smells and sights and sounds not my own. I'd rather sit outside and write letters, sit outside and write songs, sit outside and quietly pet my dogs in the sunshine. Drink iced tea, drink hot tea, practice yoga in my back yard. Wear shoes or not wear shoes, pour water over my head and shake like a dog. I'd rather listen to Anna Lou, I'd rather write in my journal or scratch in my sketchbook or sit very still with my eyes closed.
It's cold. I think I'll go inside. And I'm going to wash my smelly feets.
It's cold. I think I'll go inside. And I'm going to wash my smelly feets.