So at night before I go to bed I look out the window over the sea. In the distance, rocking on the waves, I usually see a boat or two. Some fishermen who decided to stay out in the bay instead of coming back to shore. Supposedly, some of them sleep better out there. The waves rock them to sleep. For me, the sound of the ocean lulls me to sleep and most beautiful is when the moon is full and casts it’s lights onto the ocean. I sit there, staring out the window, watching the moon and the boats rock gentle on the waves with the stars twinkling about them. After that I usually have not trouble falling asleep.
It is strange, living in this strange land and trying to adapt to the new world around me. The people here are kind but there seems to be a pervasive sadness in this culture.
I chose my apartment because I wanted to be close to where he lived. It is a type of penthouse on top of a large yellow building. It is small however, and the ceilings are quite low. A very tall person would be uncomfortable here. Supposedly, this is the place where he was born.
He. My reason for being and for being here. Yet that is a bit dramatic. I chose to come here to find out more about him and to see the things he would have seen, yet in more modern times.
Yet, sometimes at night when I am writing I feel the presence of another being in this small apartment. Other times, it’s as if something takes ahold of me and I produce much writing yet I don’t remember any of it in the morning. I read what I supposedly wrote and it doesn’t seem like something I would write at all.
However, I refuse to delete any of it because it is far superior to anything I would write.
I have friends at the university but for the most part I live a rather solitary life, except for the neighbor’s cat who seems more attached to me than the neighbor.