I moved today. It was a seven hour drive yesterday and a seven hour drive today. If I had my way I would have dragged out the time. Placing your junk into boxes is shameful. The act of occupying one place and now occupying another is a mystery. “Chapters” is what we entitle them. And I talk as though my life is a book. What where “Chapters” called before they were called chapters? I am leaning on the explanation of someone elses creation to categorize my life. How would I feel if someone was to approach me and to tell me that I was now a past chapter of their life?
I was writing my thoughts down about, “ Dreaming” (inspirational thinking). I had to stop writing the thoughts out, because each sentences started with the word, dream or dreaming. I was having right intentions, but over expressed a internal notion I felt and only gave my thoughts a frame work by saying “Dreaming” eighteen times.
It was my last day inside of the house. The house of my Grandparents who had kindly given me room and board for free over the last seven months. I did everything as I had always done. I found a good and simple joy in sitting down on the couch to watch a television program with my grandparent while drinking microwaved coffee. I loved being able to sleep one last night in that old familiar bed. Waking up in the middle of the night, hearing the squirrels running in the attic. Since my childhood, I told myself that I wanted to live there in that house, in Oregon, and I did. I have found myself often in the middle of places and acts that I have always wanted to do. But, it is only after that I realize the full extent of my scenario.
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