There's crisp April sunshine, the happy tiredness after a morning run (get back in shape, you ain't the age to be geriatric!) and calls home to family. It's weird the way it's dark back home now.
Work: coursework, projects, paperwork, upcoming internship and a research position from next sem. Busy, a bit intimidating, but pretty much exactly what I would like to be doing. A long weekend with Monday included (who said only Bengal has too many public holidays - they should come live in western MA) to power through the pending, and power down enough for . . .
Life: watching the sunrise while jogging along a rise, breathless, out of shape, but with the knowledge that I'll get there sometime. The dance of the squirrels in the trees. The first touch of springtime. Dreams of the village of Macondo, now that the last Buendia has left. More than the stories, Marquez reminded me of the time and age that I had first read them.
And yes, tickets. Tickets for home.
Trying out long distance just reinforced the fact to me: I can be as into something as the next guy, but only in short intervals. A disproportionate amount of waking hours is "me" time. Which might mean a long hike, a longer book or simply discussing Asimov or Sholokhov with someone over coffee.