Rock City

So I spent the majority of the day posturing around, picking up big ass blue travel luggage, eating sub par airport and fast food...food, and being terribly uncomfortable all in an effort to make it to the beautiful rock that is St. Thomas, the place my father calls home. As I went through the day, different thoughts about life somehow came about, the first being love, and what a relationship truly means. I usually cover up tons of my seemingly absent feelings and emotions, as most testosterone driven men (or people o be politically correct) do, but I suddenly craved my girlfriend to my surprise and dismay. Dismay may sound a little harsh to use in this instance, but its the context of my disappointment I want to convey, as when I don't see her for days, I miss her, but not as much as I did the instant I got on the first plane this morning, and mind you, I just saw her no less than 24 hours before. I also got the thinking on my ex, again. What the fuck. I notice so many things once they are behind me, like a shadow clipping on your heels once you turn the lights on. I treat her so unjust at times, but expect her to treat me with the up most awesomeness just because most of the blame falls on her when the subject of the dissolving of our love, or maybe just mine, comes to a conversation. I really appreciate her, but resent her with the up most passion, just like I resent having to drive on the effing left side of the bloody street every time I visit St. Thomas. I don't now what exactly it is, but I feel as if I am wasting my time here, yet seeing my grandmother slowly become more and more delusional its making me happy I can see her at least one more time...yet I wish I didn't have to be subjected to the fact. On the same token, my father's cousin has passed within hours of us visiting this rock, reminding me that time is of the up most essence. I utterly understand the value of this trip, of this time, but am I wrong to be weary of spending it? This thought process is going nowhere, just like me for the next week and a half. Life, the subservient slave of time. I wish I could blow it quicker than a New York Minute. Maybe.