I sit here reflecting on the many paths I've taken and crossed in my life in the mediocre bask of hotel room light. Thinking of friends and enemies and how to discern the two. Time provides the convenience of context that immediacy doesn't allow. That fleeting happiness doesn't allow. Facebook provides a convenient window for these ponderings to those who will have them. Most do not. In a wonderland of passed and cryptic memories of people that exist (in most cases) no further than their likenesses, I see more. I see friends and comrades who were no more loyal to me than to the audience that listened eagerly to jokes gained at my expense. I have a difficult time feeling much other than nothing and the intense, indignant desire to feel more. I feel betrayed by my own sense of passion and justice in its absense. Perhaps I'm happy because I'm in love and loved in return, with no need or conscious want of anything more in terms of social entanglement. Friends are superficial things, fickle as humans beings oft tend to be. It's not their fault, simply their nature. This is why I expect nothing and expect just as much in return. Still, if even an enemy extended his or her hand in remorse and friendship I would gladly accept. I'm stupid like that.

I feel groggy with a faint sense of pain inhabiting my spine from laying so long. How pathetic. My only productive act of the day was reading The Gunslinger, an engrossing if not meandering introduction to the epic Dark Tower series. More and more I wonder to myself if Steven King's vivid sexual descriptive power is accompanied by his free hand in a solitary act of "inspiration".

In the shower I'm drawn to a note that informs me of environmental awareness and how it somehow relates to towels. It's not illiteracy or vagueness that prevents me from absorbing the message, merely indifference. Somewhere someone is caring whether a tree will stand or fall. That person is not me. I'll take the towel, thank you. (If you find yourself judgemental of my actions with any sense of accusation toward me for not caring, please reflect upon the many causes you, yourself actively contribute to).

I wonder if anyone reads this. Furthermore, do they care? I don't even know if I do. This block of unorganized thought has occupied roughly a half hour of my time on this earth. Whether I'm glad or regretful at this fact is not apparent. Time is what it is, and it passes regardless of your action therein.