Uničov: the world is my pup tent

This part of the Czech Republic is like walking through a story that is trying to illustrate a history so deep that it fails miserably in doing so. When I say this part I mean the seemingly large but fenced of area that my new job is contained in. The streets are grey and worn down just as the buildings that are scattered and placed beside them. Thousands walk around in their thick cotton trousers and matching button up shirts in an unaturally vibrant blue dulled by hard labor. Oil, smears made by remanants of metals, and an aroma of all that is flesh and all that is not melded into one.

My first night in the bloc inspired temporary housing reminded me of my first night in San Francisco. Now, over two years later, I can tell that I have aged. That night I cried. I was there on the basis that I had something to prove to the world, that I could in fact do whatever I wanted and be great at it. I was sad that it was harder than I wanted it to be. Now days I have no one to prove anything to. The people that I wanted to prove something to I dont really care for anymore. The people that humored me at first now just think I am long gone. The rest dont know me and so I have nothing to prove only a life to live to meet my own expecations. If they find it strange they came to that notion on their own.

The girls at the office have been more than welcoming. I think they are happy to have a fresh face around and it helps that I have a substantial amount of Czech because I was immediatly treated with a higher respect. Every morning I walk the fifteen minutes or so from my door through the many blockades and diversions, I make my way through the monsterous concrete building and step into the office for the day. An assortment of emails and conversations are sifted through and then I make my way bake. I have been reading some travel journals and flirting with the idea of getting bolder in my writing. Thoroux, at sixty, after a lifetime of travel and storytelling wrote that a true teller of stories really has only one to tell. I want to make sure that I dont let go of mine to soon. So, I will continue filtering out tales of impure thoughts and unthinkable acts and encouters and stick to the daily hum drum. I am feally weak though and have the urge to get it down on paper. It is a shame that is something I will have to train myself to do. To have a mind for writing for myself in a book bound only to me.

The pup tent was his space away from uncomfortability. The kitchen table, the conversations, the people who loved unconditionally, they made him uneasy. He always ran to the pup tent to feel safe, to feel alone, to feel alive, and to feel real.