I’m in the final throes of vacation. The end has come, and it’s brought with it a tragic amount of reality. I must stop wearing sweatpants, shave my face, and resume life in the outside world. The real world. A world that is non-digital and severely lacking in battle with orcs and gnomes and having two beers with lunch.
It’s been strange having such a relaxing vacation where I’ve done so little with my time. I’ve learned that I can adjust to a life of unemployment with dangerous quickness. While it’s not entirely useful information, it does give me a hint of what I could get away if I ever got off my ass and did a whole lot writing. Enough to say, maybe stay home full time wearing sweatpants and not shaving my face?
At any rate, it’s been very nice. I’ve recharged my batteries. Thanks to the food and the beer, I’ve also put a little more air into the spare tire. My goal of doing as little as possible has been fulfilled quite nicely. And through it all, the little writing bug just kept nipping away at my mind. It’s always there, always lurking, always whispering things it claims need to be said, passing along images and feelings from some parallel world that seems to have a leaky membrane into my mind. There are times, a lot like this one, where I feel as though I’m some privileged individual to have such access to things. I don’t know if that’s really the case though. That feels a lot like an ego talking.
Normality resumes on the morrow. It does so with a tinge of excitement and a tinge of sorrow.