Question: Was it Frank who said, “I’m sorry,” in the movie theater?
My house-sitting gig is over. I’m back in Medford and will now have to go through the long process of reclaiming that space. Paul was asking me if it would be good to sleep in my own bed, but I didn’t really know how to answer. In some ways, I feel like I haven’t really had my own bed, my own space, or my own reality for the past couple of years. I’m feeling a stranger to my own life. When I say “reclaiming that space,” I mean something far greater than just getting settled back in.
I need to make peace with who I’ve become.
Granted, this all seems less pressing today than it did yesterday when I wrote the bulk of it. Still, the disjointed feeling remains. I’m tired of being just another fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt. I’m tired of not feeling connected. I’m tired of not feeling. In some ways I wish I were in the midst of a psychotic break because it would make all of it easier to explain away. Really, I’m faced with problems that are not only my responsibility, but also my doing. I’d best get to work.
Apropos to nothing, I may pick up a copy of The Dharma Bums soon.