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it’s strange, coming home. having to reconcile the me i want to be, the me that is so easy to be among strangers without expectations, with the me i am supposed to be at work. uncomfortable, like clothes that don’t fit. too small. limiting.

i found my lust for reading again, in the sand, under the sun. devouring words like i used to, hours disappearing. (i thought it might be gone for real – that work had ruined it – i am so glad (relieved) that i was wrong. lately (the last few years) i’ve been reading because i have to, not because i want to – it was a chore for work and i hated it, because it made me not recognize myself. i’ve always been a Reader…if i can’t define myself by that, then what?)

home. here’s a softer sun, and the first anemone hepatica of the year are bluer than blue and the sap is rising, and i am missing out because i’m stuck indoors in the dust doing inventory, counting pencils and stickers, and making money for somebody else.

i read it somewhere: don’t spend your life planning for your next vacation – make a life you don’t want to escape from.

but how do i get from here to there?