Thesis

The funny thing about starting my thesis is I thought I would have some idea what I was doing by now - but I don't. 

Does everyone else feel this mild sense of panic all the time? Is anyone else procrastinating by dabbling in new cooking (the Moroccan lamb was particularly good) or closing Facebook only to find you've somehow opened it back up again ten seconds later and are scrolling through the same shit, someone's sunny holiday making you jealous, stupid ads which you don't care about, but you stare at them anyway. 

A month ago I didn't know where to begin, and now I have almost finished collecting my data, does that mean in another month I will be deep in writing and actually know what I am doing? I hope so. 

Somehow I feel like I will be just as lost, writing words, unsure if they are what I meant to put down, or simply my fingers scrabbling uselessly for something, anything to say.

My head is above water, but I am slowly drowning. 

The Door

A door within a door
Who lives there anymore?
A home, a house, a castle on a hill
No walls, no words, all now still
And where once a kingdom stood
There remains a single piece of wood
No roof no floor, a home no more
Simply - a door within a door

The Illusion of Separateness

The illusion of separateness. A book I finished yesterday whilst lying in the grass in the sunshine,  marveling at how lucky I am.
Its still rattling around my head and I thought that made it worth talking about.

Its about the intersection of lives over time and through the war, and it's such a perfect mix of sadness and beauty that it left me feeling both lucky and devastated.  It left me with a perfect mixture of but what if...  and if only.

A mosaic of beauty and tragedy and emotion, of fervor and grief that left me reading over and over the same lines as they struck me so deeply.

It is perfectly encapsulated for me in this one paragraph:

He had never loved anyone so much. But it was something he could never admit to her. It was a truth anchored in his heart so that her pain might be less, so that she might find another, get married again, have children,  watch them grow,  make their lunches, see them off, visit them in college, get old herself, plan retirement, give away all her jewelry to grandchildren,  regret nothing - even forget, even forget the boy she was first married to, who took her picture at Coney Island, then was blown to bits in his B-24 by anti-aircraft guns over the French coast, escape impossible. 
The book of their love would be a chapter in her life. 
A digression that ends in a rain of metal over wet fields.  

..... behind her, the people on the Ferris wheel and the roller coasters were screaming too. You could hear them up and down the boardwalk,  lost forever in that last great afternoon of their lives.

Home

Home is  funny place, which I am simultaneously trying to escape from and return to. My heart longs for home, even as my feet wander farther still.
What am I searching for? 
And what will I do when I find it?