Written on the Body

Sometimes I feel as though there is a hierarchy of ideals, beginning with spirituality, and followed by English or art, maybe mathematics… but always spirituality first. I think I am losing some of the drive to realize the highest truth. I have been slipping back for a long time: first back into the sweet solstice of writing, now to the joy of temporal things, temporal relationships. To the point it even feels silly to be spending time writing this, spending time doing any of the things I’ve done in the past six months. The only thing which still seems right is the yoga. I have stopped reading the Bhagavad Gita at breakfast, and I have taken this as a sign of my decline.
I am making better and faster friends than before. Going out, not being ridiculous, having some sort of faithfulness to self or ego, not compromising more than necessary: this has been beneficial.
I wonder if some things stay with you, written in you, which no matter how long they are absent, are bound to return.

I had pancakes for dinner at an American diner tucked away behind the Duomo somewhere – probably couldn’t get back by myself if I tried. But I almost cired looking at the menu, all the English, the American things: pancakes, French toast, classic egg breakfasts. A fluent English speaking waiter who didn’t give us bad looks for ordering in English. How I miss using English effectively, for more than just communicating with friends. I had no idea I felt that way, but what a relief I felt there, surrounded by my home, my language, my things. How strangely safe.