Tonight, I’ll pack up and get ready to leave in the morning.
There’s always that feeling at the end of the summer, when the humidity lifts and there’s a tantalizing taste of cooler autumn in the air. It’s alway seems to call for a rebuke: “Another summer gone, and what did you do with it?” There are memories of days in the sun, but they slip away so quickly. If you had to write an essay, just what did you do on your summer vacation? The older you get, the harder it is to remember: A walk in the sun, a day on the beach, a moment floating in a pool when the light dazzles on everything it touches.
The end of the summer always makes me feel philosophical.
The hard part of being unemployed is that you live without structure to keep you grounded. And yet, obviously I’m busy. I do more blogging than ever, splitting my time between this one and the other.
Some days (maybe most), I hate blogging so much, I want to run away from home. Like a cop, I’m exposed to a constant stream of negative news, and it takes its psychic toll. That’s why I so treasure my time away (plus, a whole week without using a mouse is an unbelievable respite for my poor battered arms).
So far, the only thing that keeps me here is you, the readers. Over the years, many of you have become friends. (And I’m as fascinated with your stories as you are with mine.) But I won’t be here forever, at least not at my current pace. I can’t. My health dictates otherwise.
But for now, it’s the end of the summer. And soon I’ll be on my way home.