Emotion. Writer.

Because he was a writer who had to “start with an emotion—one that’s close to me and that I can understand,” personal emotional involvement in the experience he wrote about was as important to his work as was his objectivity.

– In “One Hundred False Starts” by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The past few days have been rather taxing. Maybe it’s the heat and the mixture of raining spells that have been such a constant in the South. Maybe it’s the “blackface” dixie minstrel picture that really bothered me at work. Maybe it’s a lot of things, like memory, nostalgia, love, disappointment. Or maybe it’s just plain PMS-ing, and the fact that being a woman is, all-in-all, taxing. In any case, it’s a wonder how caring and loving Josh has become… and is. He has always been able to make me laugh. Now, he’s the man who carries me, figuratively and physically. A week in Berkeley is going to wonderful but also hard without him. I don’t know how I’m going to handle deployment.

It has been a long road, but I’m finally almost there. Over the bridge. Over it. I just have to keep on running there. I can feel it. I realize now that happiness isn’t ephemeral for me. It’s like the Osaka sun, rising and falling, but still a constant in the eastern sky. It’s there, hidden or radiant, overlooking the vast sea of experiences.

It’s raining rather hard, with thunder and lighting, so please forgive me if I’m rather sentimental.

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