Twinges

Home is where friends who will drag you out incessantly are.

It's been almost a month since I've returned. I'm in pretty good shape. I'm meeting up with friends, old and new. During quiet days, I read, or play silly computer games, or observe a little quiet time.

My memories of the Bay are becoming increasingly hazy. Occassionally, unexpected corners jolt those memories awake. My hand still hurts when I write. Small amounts of text will send jolts of pain through my arm and shoulder. I know I must have done something to my hand writing for three days consecutively. I'm not sure when my hand will recover.

Come to think of it, my hand is a pretty apt allegory to my situation. When I'm awake, the situation bothers me little. I know I have done everything conceivable, and for that I will not regret what has gone on. Yet, late at night, I occassionally wake up to some bizzare thought or vivid nightmare.

I am alive. That is more than I can ask for.