In another place

I’ve been traveling from basement to first floor of my house. From garage to living room. From New York mind to Maine mind. Have been traveling the decades and have dived down very deep. The result has been a few nightmarish remembrances and some serious focus on where my life should be at right now. It should be 1/3 where it is, 1/3 way, way back there, and another 1/3 in a place I’m not telling.

The question is whether time to change is real or fiction.

What I know is simply this: There are 2 things I’d rather be doing, about 22 hours a day. 1. I’d rather be reading. 2. I’d rather be writing. Oddly enough, I do both of these for hours every day. But they don’t feel like the right reading and writing.

I want to wake up and find that somebody has pointed me in the right direction.

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