I guess you can't really expect every day to be so filled with wonder that all else is forgotten, but when the day's adventure is slightly less than adventurous, the melancholy can sometimes creep up the back of your neck, steal along your spine and infect your mind. I'm constantly having to remind myself to slow down, pace myself. I have another fifteen days, and they can't all be packed to the brim with enough excitement to make me forget. It's not really healthy to push it down and away either, I suppose. I kept saying I was coming here to run away, but I really came to recover. And you have to face what happened to get over it. I conceived of this trip in January, the last time I drove my life off a cliff with a bottle of wine in my grasp and a shiteating grin on my face. Two weeks before I left, I reached for that bottle again and let go of the wheel. And now I find myself hundreds of miles away, with my toes in the Sound, and the only thing I can think is
fuck all.
No comments:
Post a Comment