Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, October 1, 2002

Røyksopp's "In Space" a perfect fit for today's mood: pensive, wistful. The evening called me out of my low-blood-sugar-level-slump and I threw my jacket on—the blue one with the two white stripes on the biceps—and I headed over to the library to find a few books and get outside for a while.

On my way over, I drove by Salazar's house and gave him a call. It's been a few months so we planned dinner at my place tomorrow night, 6:30. The book search was futile, but I floated along the current that lead me downtown to a few stores, in the path of tempting smells from hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaraunts wafting across the sidewalks, running into Tateum and then Dustin near my old high school coffee shop hangout.

Afterwards, I followed my instincts up the interstate to a few larger bookstores where I finally found what I had been looking for along with a few bound, blank, 400-page journals on sale for $7.99. I made it home minutes before M's evening call.

I wandered out because I was feeling a little lonely and wanted some company, and no sooner had I asked with my actions than I was answered with a few coincidental meetings. Returning home, however, the evening's events served only to remind me that it's just me. I make plans, but they aren't plans with the person I want to be with. The comforting presence of friends only goes so far, their stories only distract you for so long, and anyone can say the words, "I love you."

I'm happy being alone, and I love being with other people, but I feel as though I'm in limbo, drifting through a fog of potential friendships and loves and not really realizing, materializing any of it. Give it time, I suppose. Time fixes everything.