Post Script

But there is dullness, too, and gaping time. As much as there is that constant exercise in quiet and contentment, the unaccustomed mind finds the (oftentimes) unfamiliar silences a little disconcerting. What of the previous life spent asking and chasing and turning things over and over until there are only more questions, more distances to run? What of the sleepless nights, the burning days?

But I have books to read, and music to play.

I have promises to keep.

These days, I mainly just breeze along. With the minutes, with the hours, with the days. If you asked me now where my month has gone, I'd probably answer with a shrug, proof that time has, indeed, passed by without my knowing. My "days" end a couple of hours after the sun rises and  I am usually to be found outside, talking to a colleague, or two, with my mind really flitting away into wondering where the hours have gone and did they have to go so quickly, and had I done all I had planned to do when the day began? The weekends drift by too quickly, and I hate that it has to be that way.

Whether the breezing along is a good thing or not remains to be seen because I have a nagging feeling that it could very well be just one manifestation of my determination to detach from things and detachment, though it wards away hurt and disappointment, could also leave one cold, and unfeeling, and just plain lonely. There are two sides to most things, that much we know.

So, how've you been?

Ennui.