I am feeling a little empty this morning.
Chalk a lot of it up to exhaustion. It was a long weekend - Highland Games (Did okay, nothing to really write home about) which included waking up at 0300, driving 3 hours, throwing all day, then driving 3 hours home and waiting until Nighean Gheal got home from her competition at 0030, and in bed by 0100. Yesterday was a very late rising, followed by helping the Bunnies then cleaning my mob out here and eating dinner at an Oscar party, then retreating to the house and waiting for everyone else to make it home safely (2300).
Needless to say, I am a little tired and a little mentally quiet this morning.
Secretly in my heart I am hoping for an ice day declaration which would allow me to simply finish my coffee and go back to bed, but I suspect that fate has decreed that this is not to be the case today.
Interestingly, at moments like these it feels like there is nothing that I can care about. I do not want to call things exhaustion because I do not feel particularly exhausted; I just feel very very quiet inside. The reservoir of thinking and feeling is either totally empty or at the point where there is simply nothing to be concerned about.
I am sure this will pass, of course: the grind of ordinary living is about to return with a vengeance and by tomorrow there will be something I am aggravated about or concerned about or care about to the point that I have to write about it. But I find it interesting in a period where I was incredibly busy yet spent large quantities of time alone that the only post-experience I can muster is simply that feeling that seemingly floats, still as a pond on a windless morning.