Homeward bound.

My holiday in Asia was short-lived. A lovely dreamscape that was, all things in this existence, ephemeral.

I wish I didn't have to leave - the last thing I wanted was to return to subzero temperatures and life I live day to day.  New York has become so staid for me, it's almost embarrassing for me to utter it aloud!

And now that I'm back, I keep looking around me, hoping to find an answer to a question I barely can formulate, and it feels hopeless.  It's been a few weeks, and the glorious warmth of the tropic sun is no longer a memory but a concoction.  I can't find it.

Yes, I know. My entries are such downers.  But, I swear to you, it's not intentional.  I guess on good days, I'm generally not concerned with iterating it.  But when it comes to the bad days, when I feel solitude become oppressive, I have a sickly urge to blurt it out.  I would write on paper, if I didn't find my own handwriting--inconsistently florid--distracting. 

There needs to be a period of amnesty, and I have to figure out how I can give it to myself without incurring too much cost.  So how?