One of the first weird characteristics of my new life is the dilation of time. Everything seems to go slower. Perhaps it's not so much the passage of time itself, but my ability to fill the existing time with acts meaningful to me. I flipped on Sportscenter as I made dinner, practically out of habit, as if exercising some muscle memory from a year ago. But I quickly grew annoyed by the anchors and proceeded to do laundry. The night inched ever onward, even after Carroll arrived back from work. After making sure my laptop played nice with my pre-existing setup, I took a hot shower and relaxed amidst a pile of unsorted and disorganized pile of pillows, linens, blankets, comforters, and duvets. It was this amassment of cotton and fabric that supported by back as I read Murakami until my eyes grew tired.

It's not that I'm more aware and perceptive, or more driven and enthused. It's more like I'm walking around in a perpetual state of stopping-to-smell-the-roses. It's novel at the moment, and I certainly appreciate the heightened sense of assurance that it seems to be providing, but at the same time, I fear that it will only make me feel detached. I crave solitude, so long as it's self-imposed, fearing not loneliness but isolation.