It’s just past midnight and I should have been in bed hours ago.  These days in order to avoid getting to run down I have to stay on a schedule, just like a baby.  Or the elderly.  Neither of these is a fun, or appropriate, category for someone my age. I’ve kept myself awake too long reading things I’d written years ago.  Is it weird that reading my own writing can make me cry?

I’m pretty sure that I’m in a hole, surrounded by the walls, all snuggled up in hermitville.  It’s weird, I didn’t quite notice that I was here until I read some old writing and saw myself in what I used to consider the dark times.  I’m alone in my house a lot, but most of that is out of my control.  But shouldn’t I be more miserable about it?  I don’t want to reach the point that I’m comfortable shutting out the people in my life and this feels like the slippery slope.  I’m not unhappy, but maybe I’m just used to it.