We are here. Time is so damnably fluid these days. Are we coming or going at any given moment? I thought we were going at the morning time after an announcement last night so I am up and dressed, but we’re actually not leaving for another half an hour. I also have the option to drive in on my lonesome three hours from now. But I’m up and ready for action so I might as well get this slice of effort knocked out of the way. I would like this to be one of those days – despite it being a Friday – where I think up things I need to do, like clear off my desk, and then actually do them instead of sighing longingly as though I had asked myself to pole vault over the moon.
So, yes, my list of bad ideas I actually knew were bad ideas and have confirmed via experimental testing multiple times but am trying out once again has expanded to include: drinking coffee at 11pm and then watching some scary Let’s Play videos on YouTube.
Saying aloud that it seemed that there was light at the end of the work-related tunnel. That was definitely just an oncoming train. Sigh. Big, handwringing sigh. Well, I refuse to let it get under my skin. Too many other mysteries are hanging out there for me to write over them with upsets I have no facility to alter or remove.
Getting Timehop. It essentially allows you to relive every hope and excitement that is now converted to a pain or a regret in a convenient digital package. Oh, he uses modifiers like Aristotelian and he thinks I’m swell? It must be love…or not, it might just be a really awkward and heartbreaking bit of nothing.
Ah. That place between the teeth and the inner ear is just full of these things.
That said. I am still in a decent mood that memory cannot tear asunder.
Good ideas: for whatever reason, the self-esteem muscle is flexing today and I feel alright about the whole being alive in the world problem I have. Maybe we can blame it on the seductive powers of a workable pair of pantyhose, but whatever’s the cause, I like it. I need it. I want some more of it.
Going to Writers Group where even if they don’t necessarily help you and you struggle to understand the goals and experiences of writing that others strap themselves down to, you can come away wanting to write. And that’s all I need in the end.
Last night, after not being able to sleep, I had a dream about Mr. Rochester. He was running a food cart in the middle of a big open field which is probably metaphorical for his last venture. Pleasure and satiation and nobody to stroll by and buy it. I strolled by, though, because that’s my metaphor and recognized him beneath his hat. He was happy to see me, but not so happy as I was to see him, hugging him as if his good opinion of me was my lost pair of lungs. I wanted to get close enough to it to get some air.
I really wish I didn’t wake up.