I hit my point of return.

After finals, I’m always so fried from looking at my work and trying to be creative on a deadline and to revise things that have been through so many drafts that I can’t. Look. At. It. Any. More. I want to read what I want, watch mindless TV, and decompress.

I started by trying to read books on the MLA’s top 100. I read The Great Gatsby and Lolita, both of which have a main female character hit by a car at a very convenient moment for other characters. Then I switched to science audio books stuff, which I love, but it's difficult to concentrate on string theory while I’m trying to figure out Photoshop at work. So I went to my colleague’s desk to borrow a light and brainless audiobook (not that she's brainless--she's smart and lovely), and learned, with no surprise at all, that the guy who penned this got on the NY Times Best Seller List*:

"It was in the darkest hours of the night that he most often found himself remembering his night with Lexy in the cemetery, the night he’d seen the ghostly lights he’d come down from NY to investigate. It was then that he realized for the first time how much Lexy meant to him. As they had waited in the blackness of the cemetery, Lexy told him a story about herself. She’d been orphaned as a young child… she had terrible, recurring nightmares… Lexy instantly recognized the lights in the cemetery as the ghosts of her parents. When she told him this, he wanted to hold her in his arms."

Eventually, the switch flipped. I want to write again. No, I need to write. I have ideas. I need to do my art. I want to look at old projects and shine them up to send out. I’ve been scribbling down ideas, I started reading a book on the synthesis of scientific theory and spirituality by the Dalai Lama, and I found a beautiful photo of Tempel 1 for my project. I got a documentary on string theory to watch before I attempt Bryan Greene’s book again. I have a stack of articles on the marriage of poetry and cosmology, and my little brown book that I write poems in every day is almost full. And I want to write to Deborah and have her send me my weekly prompts. It is good to be home.

*A list I find pathetically useless, and need no part of.