There were four big fishing boats out in the sea and a grey heron standing near the pool when I went down to Castle Sands this evening. I’ve been trying to put my finger on the greyness of the past week or so. There are lots of factors involved: I’m staying on top of my school work, doing some extra reading when I can, working on a short story and now working on Bede, squeezing in time to read for fun. At the same time, not getting enough sleep, and then sleeping through my alarm two days in a row, when usually I wake up before it goes off. Having phantom sinus issues, headaches. Have not yet found a quasi-Kelly/Sarah/whomever Scottish equivalent. Friends, yes, for which I am glad, but not quite the same. But such persons need to be developed as well as discovered, and both take time.
Remembering Castle Sands just now, how the darkening dusk blended the skyline into the sea, how I soon lost sight of the heron when he folded his wings into the grey distance, it struck me just how isolated the Town can be. In some ways, it is more a bubble than undergrad ever was. I am aware that the world exists outside the trinity of North, Market, and South Streets, but in an abstract sort of way. I read headlines, blogs, twitter; I ask the occasional question of those on the other shore, but they are words on a computer screen. What is real are the seagulls spiralling over Sallies Hall, the song of the flute on the wind, the next book to be read, and that I need to buy more peanut butter and apples from the store. Ibi pax in simplicitate est. The danger therein is if it is also isolating; this, too, is grey, unknown.