This is called static progress. Or it's called being a stupid turtle. I've been having a lot of homesickness
lately, at least I assume that's what it is. I haven't been "home" in 7 years, and in that time I've grown up (lie) and lived a whole separate life. The people I knew and loved are almost all
scattered across the globe and seem to be different people now, some for better, others for worse - how judgmental am I?
I didn't mean for this post to be whiny or morose, I think discussing nostalgia is cursed with that. In fact, while we're on it, I hate the word nostalgia. Makes me feel groggy, and not in a pirate way.
I think we make our own catalysts even when we're not trying, and that's the hardest part, not to focus on fueling your own fire. I suppose the heart of it is loneliness, when you're not distracted you center around yourself and it's so tempting to grab the wheel and force your own path, lazy pedestrians be damned! But more often than not this course tends to be rather disastrous.
There are a squidjillion things to do and improve upon so there's hope, but the jungle's still calling to me, and reading these dozens of Louis L'Amour books is not helping my sense of longing. The jungle was my desert, and maybe what's in my head is no longer what's there, but we'll find out someday soon.
