Marching in a slow parade. This is December, the sun don’t shine much these days, and I’m spending more time in bed than I should. 

I’ve been dating, thanks to friends and the internet, for the first time in what feels like years. It hasn’t been great, to be completely honest with you. Countless cups of black coffee, semi-awkward conversations about cats, cooking, or Christmas, and a laundry list of reasons why I never call again. Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I’m too jaded for all of this - but I somehow imagined things would be different, that I’d find these women more interesting or exciting. But I don’t. It all feels like a routine, a tired song and dance that I half-heartedly shuffle through. I want so badly to be excited, enthused, hooked like a fish and nervous as a junkie - but it just doesn’t happen. I think some part of me is broken. Or still healing. Still wounded, still weak, poking nervous head out of the cave and blinking in surprise. 

Christmas break begins in a week. I’ll be traveling inland, away from the ocean, to see my family. I’ll not bother explaining the none-too-subtle nuances of time with the family - you all know and experience much the same. I will say that I’m looking forward to a vacation, but I’m also wary of all the exposure and examination that a return ‘home’ brings.