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Aug. 16th, 2010 10:50 amI worked hard.
I played hard.
I fought hard.
I cried hard.
I laughed harder.
I lived and loved and experienced life hard.
In the supermarket last night, browsing the milk, acutely aware of the empty space to my side, I came down hard.
It was war.
My experience can not be tidily summarized in a few paragraphs.
It is in my mind as snapshots in time -
In Oaken Glen's Shower Pit, realizing that if I stopped moving I was going to fall asleep Right There,
Up to my elbows in dish water at O'Choda, merrily splashing away making bubbles for no other reason than to make bubbles,
A long ride to Ohio for a fridge, (struggling to stay awake and failing miserably),
one blissful long afternoon under the trees in a hammock, falling asleep to the dulcet sounds of drunken FizzBall,
Quiet evenings with a lovely glass of port and quieter conversation,
watching the magic of the place wash over new faces,
being so bone tired not even remembering how I got to bed,
CowDucks,
long solitary walks in the dark, surrounded by people and yet utterly alone,
and being presented a gift and promise that took my words, my heart, away.
It was not an easy war. It was not a vacation in a mundane sense. It was not relaxing.
It was bigger, greater, and far more robust than anything before. Vacation is to War as water is to port.
I sit and sip my smokey tea out of my war mug, and remember you all fondly, and try to remember what my name is.
- K./V./S.
I played hard.
I fought hard.
I cried hard.
I laughed harder.
I lived and loved and experienced life hard.
In the supermarket last night, browsing the milk, acutely aware of the empty space to my side, I came down hard.
It was war.
My experience can not be tidily summarized in a few paragraphs.
It is in my mind as snapshots in time -
In Oaken Glen's Shower Pit, realizing that if I stopped moving I was going to fall asleep Right There,
Up to my elbows in dish water at O'Choda, merrily splashing away making bubbles for no other reason than to make bubbles,
A long ride to Ohio for a fridge, (struggling to stay awake and failing miserably),
one blissful long afternoon under the trees in a hammock, falling asleep to the dulcet sounds of drunken FizzBall,
Quiet evenings with a lovely glass of port and quieter conversation,
watching the magic of the place wash over new faces,
being so bone tired not even remembering how I got to bed,
CowDucks,
long solitary walks in the dark, surrounded by people and yet utterly alone,
and being presented a gift and promise that took my words, my heart, away.
It was not an easy war. It was not a vacation in a mundane sense. It was not relaxing.
It was bigger, greater, and far more robust than anything before. Vacation is to War as water is to port.
I sit and sip my smokey tea out of my war mug, and remember you all fondly, and try to remember what my name is.
- K./V./S.
