Perhaps it's because of my erratic sleep schedule, or my diet of bagged liquid eggs and iceberg lettuce, or maybe because of the ridiculous amount of walking I do, but lately, I've just felt depleted.
From a steamy hot tub in the Dillon Valley, I watched 2017, a year that wasn't, evaporate like the fireworks which rained down over the mountains above. Having finally made a move in November, as I joined the toast with several newfound friends, I vowed to make 2018 full of new experience.
Five weeks later, I found myself watching the sunset through an arch in the desert, and five days after that, it sank into The Yellow Sea.
The ten weeks that followed would feel like a lifetime, as I answered an array of questions spanning from foreign customs to the job itself. There was the new continent, the culture, the food, the sites, the weather, the time difference, and of course, the girl.
After a ten week marathon of emotion, I found myself briefly, as I again sat on a trans pacific flight.
Back home, in the Texas heat, for a week, I slowly drifted back a year. But just as I'd began to rest and digest, I again found the air.
As I write this from my fourth bedroom this year, I'm staring out the window at yet another view. From winter to summer to winter to spring. In alaska first spring, and now into fall. The past six months have felt like six years. And while I love how it's happened, I'm slowly beginning to crave something more normal. Then again, maybe not, who knows.