I’m not claustrophobic, but I’ve never liked small, confined spaces. I think that has something to do with all of the time I spent in hospital rooms when I was a kid. Staring at the same walls for days or even weeks on end can slowly erode your psychological fortitude. I was reminded of that yesterday when I had to spend the evening in my bedroom because my living room had been turned into a construction zone. On the other hand, my cushy middle-class existence has probably made me soft. My bedroom is roughly the same size as the living room in my old West Bank apartment and I lived there for seven years without complaining.
It’s nearly 8:00 p.m. and I’m writing this from my office. After going home for a while this afternoon to move some stuff out of my bedrooms, I decided to come back here rather than spend another evening in my disheveled home. Not that my office isn’t disheveled, but it’s a very industrious-looking kind of disheveled. And I knew you would all start to miss me terribly if I went two days without blogging. Or at least, I like to think you might have missed me. Let me have my delusions, okay?
You WOULD be missed, don’t stop, don’t stop!