Caught in torrential downpours and the odd candidness of hypnogogia, I realize how vulnerable I've been feeling lately. Sixty days into a new life with no point of reference have felt like a rug has been pulled from under my feet and I still hover in the air, my stomach in my throat, waiting for my feet to reconnect with the Earth. My solitude here has largely contributed to my sense of disconnection. Some days, I have intense moments of deep-seated misery, which I instinctively attribute to homesickness. After a flashing moment, I realize that what I'm feeling would not be alleviated by being at home. I know the feeling emanates from something else.
I know that I've been missing something from my life for a long time, really since I've disconnected from religion. By no means am I on a journey to find religion, but I am looking for something to fulfill my life between these transient moments of happiness.
I learned a new word today: raconteur. What I learned about this word is that I am its completely opposite. There are some people who can tell stories about the most banal things. I frequently range from overtelling every detail of a story to the point of boredom to prematurely cutting to the punchline. My own self-awareness prevents me from recounting the details of my life because I know I won't retell them in any important way.
Until my next substantial thought.
-M.E.
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