I've been digging too deep/I always do...
The days seemed to be crammed in a way that hadn't been true for nearly ten months. At least, the past week or so had appeared that way. Between helping with Stu and Jane's rather massive project, mounting a council campaign, and keeping the treehouse from emotional implosion, he'd had to do his usual routine of school and radio, and of course there was Rob and family and friends and...
Dear god, he'd gone domestic.
It was a pity that he'd realised this just as he'd begun to hammer two pieces of wood together to construct a bookshelf (his bedroom was in dire need--Atalanta was now nesting in a pile of modern poets that he'd never seen a reason to return). He'd come dangerously near (i.e. about two centimetres near) to smashing his thumb as well, and that would not be a good thing. Considering he was a good klick and a half from the nearest ice.
So he set it aside for a moment, blinking a few times in the sun on the small garden he'd begun out front of the treehouse, trying to clear his head before he started again. Domestic. It wasn't like he wasn't doing the necessary adaptations of place, right? And it wasn't like he wasn't coming the closest to a continuous non-manic happy that he'd ever been. If this was the case, then he couldn't be wrong to be doing this.
It was less self-doubt and more a question of identity. Was he still the Doctor?
Maybe he was just trying to distract himself from the elections. If so, he thought, he could have chose a less risky task and less philosophical bent.
((Dated forward to Wednesday after school. Incidentally, if you're in there--you guys are learning about the ancient Celts--I SWEAR I'll do a post sometime. Lyrics are the Indigo Girls' 'Hammer and a Nail' for great irony justice.
OH. And LATE?NEW TAGS WELCOME.))
Dear god, he'd gone domestic.
It was a pity that he'd realised this just as he'd begun to hammer two pieces of wood together to construct a bookshelf (his bedroom was in dire need--Atalanta was now nesting in a pile of modern poets that he'd never seen a reason to return). He'd come dangerously near (i.e. about two centimetres near) to smashing his thumb as well, and that would not be a good thing. Considering he was a good klick and a half from the nearest ice.
So he set it aside for a moment, blinking a few times in the sun on the small garden he'd begun out front of the treehouse, trying to clear his head before he started again. Domestic. It wasn't like he wasn't doing the necessary adaptations of place, right? And it wasn't like he wasn't coming the closest to a continuous non-manic happy that he'd ever been. If this was the case, then he couldn't be wrong to be doing this.
It was less self-doubt and more a question of identity. Was he still the Doctor?
Maybe he was just trying to distract himself from the elections. If so, he thought, he could have chose a less risky task and less philosophical bent.
((Dated forward to Wednesday after school. Incidentally, if you're in there--you guys are learning about the ancient Celts--I SWEAR I'll do a post sometime. Lyrics are the Indigo Girls' 'Hammer and a Nail' for great irony justice.
OH. And LATE?NEW TAGS WELCOME.))