I've had a quiet day. A lot of piddly, needed things accomplished. I had a lot of alone time, which I relish.
I did some errands for my Aunt Jill's school board campaign, I went for a bike ride, I went to this movie, had a nice conversation with my Handsome Randy & I visited my grandpa.
I arrived home at an early hour for me. It was just past 10pm, the night was young. But I was tired and sort of, meh, so I wandered up to the bedroom to read my book. I ended up finishing it.
The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant. The last pages left me weeping, nearly inconsolably so that I had to put the book down for a moment and have a good cry. This is not monumental; I cry a lot. Reading the paper (you may remember This Post), television shows, even witnessing a touching sight often moves me to tears. But the intensity of this cry was curious.
I was reading this book, this touching moment was happening & I cried. I cried a lot. And while the book was indeed that moving, I felt as though I was really crying for other things. My day was relatively unremarkable, there were a few emotional twists and turns in regards to friendships and family, albeit minor. I resist plans, which often leaves me to talking things out to myself. I did this over the course of my day running errands, bike riding & such. So perhaps I was crying on behalf of all of the things I had thought out, or perhaps it was the solitude of my day, the absence of my handsome partner in crime, or maybe, just maybe, I simply needed a reason to cry.