Interlude.

There are trees in the distance that look like they were painted onto the mountain. The mountain looks like a sheet of paper and I have a growing urge to put my hand out and crumple everything I see into a ball. I want to tear the corners off of my view and unfold it again to find that everything has changed - that the trees are all around me and the room I am sitting in is far away, across the sea.

I have been lax in writing on my blog and much of it has to do with a sense of accomplishment with my last blog. Much of it has to do with how busy I am - and that bothers me. Writing has always been something for myself more than anyone else. I hate to think that I am starting to care less and less about myself, even if that is what appears to be happening.

I went shopping today and was startled by prices for just about everything. I am not a thrifty soul - far from it - but I have no desire to pay upwards of 600 dollars for a sweater. I'd rather just freeze my pretty little ass off instead. I am going to finish this take home final and then go back out for more shopping in the afternoon. There is no reason to be hasty about anything, anymore.

When I return I will call everyone I have missed so dearly and I will e-mail everyone that has sent me a missive. There is something about my home country that doesn't feel like home anymore, and once I noticed it I found that it wasn't my home country anymore. Perhaps that part of my life was folded up once or twice and rearranged where love touched love, where reality became thinner and gauze-like across the flesh of memory.

-Rich
me and you only in this heaven only here