Sunday

I am still at bed at noon and I just don't want to get out. To my left a stack of books I have vowed to read this summer, but have only started a few. A half-opened suitcase of the next batch of clothes I will bring to Boston for the final move in a few weeks. It's been oddly surreal, knowing I'll be leaving this place of comfort, and this fact nearly forces my mind to shift to all the beautiful thoughts of home. I always feel this pull, this gut wrenching feeling of guilt, that I will be leaving the ones closest to me and embarking on a selfish endeavor. And then I think, well, we can't hold ourselves back due to fear and not live life. We have to do things for ourselves, embrace what is inside of us and freely journey to wherever that place is. I can't help but feeling like I'm doing something wrong, or maybe, it's just such an unfamiliar feeling that I assume it's not normal. The point is, I love my family and friends in the most tender way, and that fact ignites many different thoughts...