(19.05.2004 - 9:53 p.m.)
Sometimes I get to thinking. And sometimes I don't. Life is peculiar in that way. I used to be discontent with the very fact that I had too much time to think. Too much time to sit and ponder the inponderables. Imagine the unimaginable. Question all the answers that I had ever been given; that I had ever figured out for myself. And now, when I wonder why I have difficulty writing my thoughts down, the only answer I can come up with is because I don't seem to have the time to sit and think about the very things I used to be so irritated by. That is wholly confusing. I can feel myself becoming fidgety again. The all too familiar feelings of wanting to move on and up sticks. Damn this wanderlust. For someone who seems to thrive in being somehow rooted, the burning desire to wrench those roots from the ground never truly leaves me. Maybe. Maybe if I take the time to sit and think. Yes. There you are. I still wonder. I still reach out.
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