Every time we do it...

I remember something about what I used to love. It comes back to me like the wisps of a forgotten dream, and I chase it and grasp at it and it disappears just as quickly. But I still saw it, and I can conjure it up again.

There is love for dancing, feeling the music and manifesting pure loving energy in every cell. There is love for creatures and the spark of life (not that I forgot this one; I just begrudgingly dislike many of my fellow species too often to remember that I love them more). There is the profundity of the infinite cosmos, and being able to see the universe at night every night, and driving home gazing at Venus and Jupiter and Mars along the same horizon. There is the promise that I am doing something with my life that is helping, or at the very least, inspiring young people.

Of course, there is also the battle of insignificance. Am I doing what I should? Is there another direction that I have brazenly disregarded because I've followed the sweeping path of the current into this remarkably complex living arrangement, yet again

And I want to love where I am and who I am, but I have made it so damned hard for myself. Who loves carrying around a pile of complicated nonsense for a year at a time, only to dump it (along with every necessity therein) and start over completely, struggling to replace it and gradually building up another jumbled, preposterous mass? Who could love that?!

Astonishingly, I gravitate to this lifestyle. Do I love it after all?

I need a shower and sleep.