There’s something sickening and comforting about going back to your home town. That’s what I did today. Twice. In fact, I got back to my house about ten minutes ago. I’ve been home long enough to drop my keys, my wallet, and my clothes near the table in the kitchen, walk to my office, check for any messages (none), and sit down to write a blog entry.
In the span of the day today, I’ve driven a total of six hours. Admittedly, that’s not too bad, but I had band practice in the middle of all that driving; along with hauling the necessary equipment, organizing things, and moving boxes and stacking and everything in between. It’s been an eventful day, to say the least.
Tomorrow I’m sure I have meeting after sordid meeting scheduled out, and my birthday is this wednesday. I can’t say that I have anything planned because, well, it’s just a birthday. I am giving blood that day, and I suppose that that is something. Knowing that my life, if nothing else, has meant that much is good enough for me. My blood has saved others, even if I’ve done nothing else.
I don’t really have anything profound or important to say tonight. I guess I just felt like writing something, anything, and letting it float out in cyberspace for a little while. I’m tired, but I imagine when I lie down I’m going to be wide awake again. Ah well. At least I got a decent night of sleep last night, even if it wasn’t at home. I wonder if that’s part of the reason, or if there’s something else involved?
Huh. I just sat here and stared at the screen for a good five minutes. I wonder why I have such trouble saving what I consider a “mediocre blog entry”. Why can’t just the act of writing be enough for me? Why does it have to be some striving, some kind of divining inspiration, some larger puzzle solved? Why must there be some kind of labyrinth or maze to wander through? Why can’t the process, the journey, be enough? Why must I over analyze all of this? Sigh.
Okay. I’m saving this now. Screw it.