Crashlanding

Jetlag never hit me so hard. I am nocturnal, with no recourse but to blog at 03:47. Home has not arrived completely, and feels as yet devoid of substance, or the current of electric life that makes the present wrap around the surface of the skin. I breathe, partially to no effect. Half my cups are empty, half my cups are full.

In the state of travel, however, exuberant ideas organized themselves rapidly, encouraged by the forward movement of my body and the expansion of my soul, delayed in leaving one place but expected to appear at the next. Stretched between departure and destination, it lingered in one and all, unraveling inner struggles anew, agitating, calm.

Cascades of vertical ratiocinations then accumulated horizontally as lists, aggregated irresponsibly, innocuous in their innability to cohere, or press for action.