I was looking back at old entries, and suddenly realized that I don't ever seem to write about my personal life. I pontificate on the media and odd travails, I snag talking points from other blogs, but I rarely reflect on...on what I'm feeling.
I've been told I can be a little cold and aloof, which I've always attributed to my predisposition toward polarities -- black or white, all or nothing. Living here has confounded me. Black is white, all is nothing, and I can oppose any argument I formulate with an anecdote from my three-block walk home from the point at which the company car drops me.
I'm beginning to adjust to the heat; it rained during the night and the air is clear, which makes the city a little more bearable. I haven't slept for more than a few hours at a stretch in the past few days, and the unsettled aggravation that has come over me is confounding. I love my job and feel as if I am making a measurable contribution to MNC; I love coming home to my little kittens, my naughty noodles; I love lazing around in my flat and reading newspapers and reading in bed while S reads beside me.
So now I've babbled on and on, and I still can't reveal much beyond platitudes about how great things are. You think writing is your passion, and then words fail you. And THEN where do you go?