More at Border's

I try and read some at Border's: Sylvia Browne, random Gnostic texts, and even an interesting guide on visualization. I become absorbed in watching other people around me, picking up bits and pieces of their conversation, but only really notice the elderly man sitting next to me. I've seen him here before. Recognizable by tattoos on each forearm, assuming from his veteran days of war. Navy, I guess. I then find an even comfier spot, hidden in the stacks of books, reading about the afterlife by the acclaimed psychic and feel warmed and curious about what lay ahead of me. Right or wrong, my teachings from when I was a little girl display their disapproving heads in one succinct nodding motion: "No, no. There is only ONE way to heaven." Sylvia doesn't believe in "heaven," but an afterlife called the Other Side. The Other Side where we plan out contractual arrangements to live life on earth with various lessons to be learned. Our lot in life is pre-determined, but with supposed ample options for us to take, never going back on the free will promise we're given as humans. I decided against buying both books, but am enraptured enough to reserve them from the library once I get home. I get home to my waiting Oz and he briefly greets me, pretending he didn't miss me or cry for his loneliness, but I know he did both. I then go crazy for a little while, trying to watch bad T.V., being successful for an hour or two, content even. But then it gets to me. This being alone in the house, by myself, nowhere to go, nothing to do. Unable to feel fully energetic enough to do anything about it. I try to stretch and do a couple of yoga stances, meditating all so briefly. Does it work? Well, cut to present time; I am here now, writing away about nothingness and, yet, seemingly everything for me. This is my life and I am not content. I hate being at home all day by myself, listening to the phone ring, never showing any signs of answering it. Occasionally stumbling out of the recliner to chase the cat off of the counter, willing him to play with me or at least let me cuddle with him. At times, he detests both. I think Oz gets sick of my company. He needs adventure as much as I do. Perhaps he needs a kitty companion. Perhaps I try to fill my life with numerous things, seeking to fill the un-fillable and solve the unsolveable.