Sometimes I wonder if I am going crazy; the lack of people to talk to leaves me with the occasional internal monologue that narrates my day. The only time that it gets let out is when I write. There are few people that I easily relate to and even fewer people with a sufficient command of English to have an in-depth conversation. I guess today I am suffering the acute effects of a lack of community. No one asks me how my day is going that really cares about my answer. There is no Thursday night bible study (read: ice cream and chill time with friends) and there is no one to share my free time with (read: no day off camp style). I hate feeling isolated.
I could kick myself for each time I decided to eat by myself in my room at Walla Walla, or opt out of some get together for no good reason. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. It is one thing to choose alone time (albeit a poor choice), it is another thing entirely to have no other option.
This isn't the adventure that I imagined. All the bold explorers had crews or mates or other people in their parties. I always think of Lewis and Clark. Lucky bums. To explore the Northwest with friends and crew. [sigh] Hundreds of years and tens of thousands of miles separate me from their expedition, but it doesn't stop me from being jealous. When I get metaphorically shot in the rump, there is no Clark to pick the buckshot out my arse and give me a band-aid (it's a true story, look it up--except for the band-aid, I think).
I am learning the hard way--or, perhaps I am being taught--the importance of community. No man is an island, and he would be hard pressed to survive as a peninsula. I thought I could handle this. Maybe I can. Just not right now. Not today