Our Hearts Are Restless

Sully had known love but never true love.  True love wasn't defined as being willing to die for the one you loved.  That was part of it, but the smaller part.  Hell, he had been willing to die for the women he loved, for women he didn't love, and even for a few dreadful women he disliked, which was how he ended up with one eye, one ear, and one hand.   True  love meant being willing to  live for the woman who was the other chamber of your heart, to work yourself threadbare for her if necessary, to know her mind as you knew your own, to love her as you loved yourself, to cherish her above all earthly things unto the end of your years.   There was the valiant and exhilarating life, more thrilling than ten thousand expeditions up ten thousand Amazons! ~  The Dead Town , Dean Koontz, p. 375

CCO via Pixabay, 2014

For my own sake, I have decided that it is high time to pick up the pieces and post something cheerful on this blog!  2015 ended in a depressed slump, as a chaotic month of chasing my tail over freelance projects switched gears into mourning the loss of my grandmother.  2016 has potential to be quite interesting, as I begin my first-ever full year of "adulthood" (which is quite a relative term if you think about it.)  No more bouncing back and forth like a ping-pong ball between home and school; no repeat of 2015's school/graduation/job hunting/frantic moving/wait I'm an adult now-ing.  I hope. I'm looking at a year of 8-5 Monday-Friday work weeks, punctuated by the occasional holiday, weekends in Indy, and perhaps a few adventures here and there.  Happily, the benefit of an office job is that it gives me evenings and weekends to do (or choose to not do) stuff in.  Right now, that means balancing freelance commissions with a burgeoning social life.  In the futur

There's a reason I haven't written on here much over the past month.  I knew that I had to write about Granny - not just an abstract post like In the Shadow of Death - and I wasn't ready yet.  I can't write on this blog until I talk about her death, because it's a bit like falling off the horse.  She always read my blogging, even when she complained she didn't understand the words I was using.  When I was in Rome, she'd see my pictures and ask me questions about where I'd been and what I was doing.  For a while, my excuse was that I needed time to recover from the emotional drainage of the funeral.  In reality, it's hard for me to write knowing that my dedicated audience of one is gone.  Yet the last thing she'd want is for me to stop writing because of her. So for better or worse, this post is being written, because it's time for me to cry.  Please forgive the many writing errors I know will crop up. Sometimes, my brain tries to trick m