The Reading and the Writing

It's been over two weeks since I looked at a computer screen.

There was a time in my life when that would've been inconsequential, as well as a time when that was a simple fact (oh, those days of dial-up and busy phone lines and debating whether it was more important to access the mysterious Internet or talk to a friend), but these days, it seems that it's almost impossible to take a break from technology.

I didn't even take a REAL break. Even traveling, there's WiFi everywhere these days. It's easy to get a phone and a cheap phone card with texts, calling, and internet access. Google Voice has made talking to people everywhere easier than ever before. Despite weeks of traveling, I'm still remarkably connected to the rest of the world and my "normal" life. And yet, two weeks without my computer felt like a cooling breeze on a far-too-hot summer's day. It's with reluctance that I find myself with the screen before me. I'm not sure I was quite ready to return (says the girl who just signed a contract for a full-time tech job).

And yet the words tumble and fumble and bumble around in my head, clattering against crumbling walls, making it harder and harder to focus on the voices around me or the places I see. And so I find myself here, finally in front of a screen, pouring out a few of them, trying to clean up some of the clutter.

In my slight technology break, I've read a lot (on a Nook--I do understand the irony here, but man, does that save suitcase space and weight. Another phenomenal change that makes travel today so different from the way that it was before).

The more I read, the more words wash their way onto the cluttered shore of my mind. The author's words, the world's words, my brain's words. Every now and again, the world of the story becomes so prominent that I find my own inner world temporarily quieted (how I love those days!), but most of the time, those other worlds simply revitalize my own. This is equally good and bad. It's awesome to have ideas, to have the all important feeling of having something to say, and yet when that is not the focus of my life (which I find it never really is), it's mostly just a hassle.

But I love to read. And I love to get lost in books. And so I tolerate the inner turmoil that it sometimes creates when my mind gets so wound up.

My fingers can't keep up, and yet I haven't even said anything of substance thus far.

So I'll say simply that I'm happy to be reading. And I guess I'm ready to do some more writing. The summer sprawls before me with its promise of time (albeit a small amount--little fractions of days--considering the way that each day divides into portions). I find myself eager to make the most of it.

I'll write more when I figure out what it is I want to say. Something about travel. Something about life. Something about where to go from here...