There’s a good reason for my lack of posts lately; namely, I don’t have a personal life. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. I do go out with great friends, I even finally broke the yoga barrier last weekend and relished in what it offered me — but my relationships are all friendships and they all are perfectly hum drumming along, my family seems happy, even the furry beasts seem content (though a tad disgruntled at my late hours early in the week).
In short, life is good but lacking drama. I even got a raise at work and good marks on my evaluation (but let’s face it, I expected both and would have been appalled with anything else — that’s not immodest, that’s honest).
And all of this ease makes me . . . well, it makes me want something else. I can’t help but feel the path is too worn and, not too long ago, I was on a much stonier one. So Florence begins to pull at me again. I start missing the cappuccino, hearing the language, the red-tiled rooftops and church bells. Being alien. I really miss being alien. So I try to compensate with a film, a random phrase that confounds students, recreating a dish at home. But alien . . . well, you can’t recreate that — you must encounter it.
So all signs point to travel. I need to go somewhere new. Somewhere alone. Somewhere far away. Until then I guess I’ll seek the new in the familiar.