"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book(Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom(when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this(or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death."

Anais Nin

I've been feeling restless again. Things have been great. More than great actually. I've never been happier with being "lost" than now, but somehow this restless vein, it creeps up in the middle of the night while everyone is asleep and I'm still up, working, reading, writing. It doesn't suffice; the work, the book, the things I write. They only make me want to run again. To find new things to fall in love with, to captivate me. So I've been toying with the idea of taking a little trip. A little trip or a long hiatus. Just disappearing. No explanation, no warning. Just *poof.*

That would be so nice. To just quickly fade away.