What is more tedious than midday loneliness? Nothing, I think; yet I wade through it and record it faithfully, such that it would be easy to mistake it for something idyllic or at the very least subtly dyed with the dazzling colors of significance.

To cease caring about this girl now would not only be madness, it is an impossibility. And over a temporary distance problem? It would be homicide, where the mind is the scoundrel with the smoking pistol and the heart is the fellow sprawled supine on the living room floor, frantically losing its crimson sustenance. This silly metaphor reminds me a little of KT Tunstall’s Black Horse and Cherry Tree song, where the heart is the embittered rebel whose cord was cut and now stubbornly resides near the horse and cherry tree. So often KT articulates my thoughts for me with such exquisite clarity; I owe her tremendously for all of it, but there is no repaying artists.

For all that preamble, what paltry conclusion have I to offer? What unsatisfying analyses follow, and on what topics? How did the art of living optimistically float away from me as it has done, miraculously, and as quietly as the movement of air against itself? Somehow, I have allowed isolation to suck dry my garden of creativity, and simultaneously permit Vanity and her tiny glass heart to pursue and pursue me.

More importantly: why is it that I am always asking the question no reader understands or, if he might, is not willing or able to answer? Sometimes I feel irretrievably alone with myself, though unquestionably I am the one individual I yearn for a scintillating hiatus from.

I need to go home, in any case. I’m writing this in the Denver airport where people mill about me like giant unsmiling germs. Dad is off somewhere gazing at all the Denver Bronco apparel (barely variations of all the Bronco sweatshirts and tees already cluttering his closet), and I’m here on Oasis not making much sense, but feeling marginally better for having employed some cathartic words.

“One never reaches home, but wherever friendly paths intersect
the whole world looks like home for a time.” Hesse, I think.