Maybe too many fingers were crossed, maybe they were double-crossed. All I know is that my door to France is closed, for now, and my escape hatch is ready to go. For now there's numbness. You know you should be feeling something, anything. But there's a shock to the system, and nothing happens. The void opens and life falls in, and there's nowhere to go but down. The crushing of dreams and the lack of emotion are soon to follow. You know that something just isn't how it should be. And so, for now, I have allowed myself more time to adjust and move along and move all of my crap. I have no time table and so everything suddenly is less stressful. And I'm staying just a little longer here in Portland before relocating to Houston.
Mrs. Dalloway, however, is now back on top of my priorities. And Remains of the Day and 1Q84, along with the copy of Dan DeLillo's Underworld, because I love his novels as well; they are always anti-capitalist, a little dark, and most intriguing.
So many books. So little time. At least I removed some stress about moving and made time for myself. Back to work for me...
There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. It sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hill-sides soften and fall in (23) - Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
(originally posted 5 April, 2013)
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