The energy had fled with the sunlight today. Too early a time to rise, too many more mornings like this coming ahead. Where was I, I wondered. Was I going back tomorrow? It dawned that I was. With realization came an apathetic exhaustion known only to government clerks and prostitutes.

I was afraid. I didn't know why. The thought of going back brought to my mind all of the pain I felt before. Bad relationships, weekends spent in knolls of books, and the seemingly inevitable empty ambition. I thought I would be returning to it all, taking up the torch again.

In my mind, I lit that torch when I was still in junior high school. A failing student, I thought life was empty. Nothing made sense. Then I realized something that gave me guidance: ambition. It wasn't much, but it raised me out of my quagmire.

Years later, I read by this light sometimes. Like a pale red lantern, it hangs beside me, reminding me of an old European study. I look down to read what is illuminated by it, lifting my head to gaze at the wall from time to time, to the thoughtful darkness of promise. In the dead of night it comes desperately. Sleep does not come with it. I am left there, worrying if I will have enough to move forward, if the light will nudge my head nestled kindly on the desk.

Earlier today held that silent fear in my bones. I was transfixed, unshakable, monotone words dribbling out my mouth like saliva and spittle from a catatonic madman.

Why this again...I had constructed so much, become what I wanted to be. Was this Mesopotamia time? Maybe I was a fruitful harvest, washed out by aggrediously unmerciful floods from the Tigress. They say silt deposits came with such floods, enriching the soil further.

I'm scared. The books, the lectures, even the friends there all contribute but a smatter of mortar and brick from which my ideal places of being are made.

I feel threatened that this glass will shatter and fall down into me, through me, revealing the organs, the blood, a core weaker than I had envisioned.

The earlier day was tart, my family providing some succor with their charm.

And then came the evening.

There was a ring, an expected acknowledgement it was for my grandmother. She handed the phone to me, instead. I was bewildered, yet calm.

It was Cpttylor. He and RedMeridian had come to LA to attend the maturation of her sister into a degree-touting photographer. They asked if I was available, finding nothing to do after having unfortunately missed their opportunity.

Grandmother looked at me sternly, saying I didn't have the time. I assented quickly. I know what to pack better than she does.

45 minutes later revealed the three of us standing atop the canyon I wrote about before. We arrived just as the sheets of sunlight behind the northern hills began to fall down in a red-orange sheaf of intertwined threads.

What we spoke of was meaningless. Fears, hopes, and dreams connected to the fact that we were students curious about graduate school and the untold horrors it presented. I enjoyed their presence, simply, raw and warm in its power inside of me.

It seemed dinner plans were somewhat shaky sometimes, as they may not have understood what I meant. You see, it was the fact that when I said, "no, just want family tonight" after they asked if they could eat with my gram and I, I very well meant them...especially meant them. I needed my family tonight, and that they were there meant everything to me.

The sushi was fabulous, as always; the strange goings-on between the three of us light-hearted and warm; the farewell sweet, but hip.

They helped me see I had changed, taken down some roots somewhere. In all this travelling, I had developed as an adult, even as a child. I want grounding in one location, but maybe I just need more of it in me.

I'm at a loss for words at the feelings. You can fill them in much better than I can.

So, off I go to pack the rest of my things, get little rest, and start my journey again. Some part of me knows, at least, that there is something different and permenant now in me.

That's all that matters now.

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