On nights like tonight, after talking to Mr. Maybe for several days; after returning to friends and the comfort of home for a long weekend; when there is no one that understands on the other end of the phone, the residual loneliness of a dark room that doesn't feel like home is too gaping and too hollow and too much, and the tears left on my pillow don't do much to fill it.
It takes so much energy to keep restarting. I'm so fortunate to have connections and experiences in so many areas, but damn, it's hard. It takes so much backbreaking work to delve into the hard, rocky ground of a new place with just my little shovel. It takes a lot of muster to pour a foundation, to start feeling solid about new work and new people. And then the frame goes up, and the work starts to pay off. Then the roof, the walls, and next thing you know, you're ready to place the last picture frame on the last wall. And just as soon as it feels like a really good start of a really good thing, it's time to pick up and start all over again, hunched over a new unforgiving plot of land, muscles a little more sore, shovel a little less sharp and shiny.