Forks, Books, and Fucking Drum Circles.

Dear K,

Today it was warm, well it got up into the thirties. I'm wrestling with something else too. Someone has come back into my life, and I'm torn between the scars and the love buried underneath.

I feel my life forking again. I'm excited to see which way it goes. Because life isn't something to be suffered, it isn't a drudgery to be borne. I'm excited for my life.

I need to leave this town next year though. As much as I love it, as much as I love home I need a bigger city, I need vibrancy and life, and that is hard to have in a town full of banks.

I miss college, and being poor, not that I'm rich but I felt like I was accomplishing something by struggling. My life is too easy here. I only have to show up at work for eight hours and they pay me. I don't have to put in the effort, but I do.

I need young people, and I'm surrounded by middle age and automobiles. I want to ride trains with strangers and get into arguments with people about what Proust really meant, not that I've ever read any Proust or have any idea what he meant, or why he would write such a god-damn long "book".

I'm trying to write again. Did you know that whiskey helps? I'm at a bar right now. My first glass of whiskey carried me three pages, and those were just sketches of dialogue, once I get back to them and embroider them I'll have nine or ten out of them.

But now there are too many people, and everybody is here with their friends, and all of mine live in other cities.

Also the people who play the drum circle every tuesday and wednesday night below my apartment are here. I'm not sure why they have their own place and their own space to play in. I fucking hate drum circles.

Regards,
K