Time does not fly if you having fun. It's been three weeks since I returned from tour and I can barely tell you where the time has gone.
Five weeks away felt like five weeks away. Every day was different and gave you something unique to remember it by. The day was a full day and you lived it... when I came home after five weeks my body looked like it had aged five weeks, and I had physical and mental scars to prove I had seized each day.
Three weeks at home feels like any non-discriminate time period. You have no unique or notable events with which to meausre the passing of time... shifts at work blend into one shift at work, evenings at home blend into one condensed memory of being at home, even the standout days become either last Wednesday or the Wednesday before that.
I have yet to shake the feeling of confusion, I am approaching my life at home in the same haphazard lack-of-information way that I handle life on tour and it's leaving me displaced and scatty. The first few days back at work nearly drove me to desperate acts they were so removed from the experiences I'd been having.
A heroin addict once described to me the rush of being out on the streets at 4am looking to score. Drug dependancy aside, she most enoyed the feeling that she was doing something most others weren't, that she was awake on the streets when others were asleep, that she knew people and a subculture that existed far from the eyes of the daywalkers and that gave her feelings of confidence and security. That's pretty similar to how I felt, and I didn't have to jam a needle in my arm to get it.
currently listening to: a fan, by my ear, at work.
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