(65) thoughts while traveling by bus

It has been about a month since I’ve written here and almost that long since I’ve written at all, I think. I just haven’t known what to say. Or maybe I’ve just been talking so much I haven’t had any words left. That seems unlikely. Or maybe I’ve been listening so much, I haven’t taken time to think. That seems more possible, given my current occupation.
I’ve been doing a lot more thinking out loud lately, I think. More than usual? And my words sound loud and tumbling and repetitive. Like I’m fleshing out the same issues as always. The endless processing doesn’t resolve the angst as well recently as it has in the past, it seems. I might be making that up.

I’ve taken up amateur couch-surfing of late, spending the last 9 nights in 4 different homes. Most recently, I was on an air mattress on a playroom floor. I turned over last night and a small toy car tumbled out of the bed and scooted away.
I notice how different relationships bring me out of myself differently. Is this normal? I imagine it must be. But the “who am I?” question slips in and out of my thoughts. If I am a bit of a shapeshifter, adjusting diet, habits, language, in different groups of friends and acquaintances, am I still an honest person, a person with integrity? Is all of that still me?

I think I want a cause. Something to really work for. Like immigrant and refugee rights. Or something. Maybe what I really want is some direction. To move consistently one way.
This thought is sparked by just listening to a couple podcasts. I annoy myself by caring about the cause of the oppressed, but apparently not enough to do anything tangible, even to do the research to learn more.

This seat is unbelievably uncomfortable. Only 99 miles to go…


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