(no subject)
It has been commented recently that I write in fits and starts, as if this journal is more a geyser than a river. I could say that it's because I have nothing to talk about, but that's not true. I can talk an hour about a paper cup. It's not a lack of words, just will.
Not "slay the dragon" will. That kind of will is easy. Chekov said "Any fool can survive a crisis; it's this day to day living that wears a man down." Almost right; not quite. I'm not worn down. It's just the construct of my mind isn't pointed this-a-ways.
Let me elaborate. I do too much. Way too much. Often I've commented how like a child I throw the crystal balls of commitment high in the air.. five than six then ten then twenty... how pretty they look! And soon enough, one too many flies up and they all begin crashing down as I grasp to catch them. I stand among the cracked glass and I feel bad for a while. Then I open a new box of balls... ad infinitum (as long as you have the balls to continue this way).
As I've grown more cranky and set in my ways (which is different from aging), I've begun to parse it down, and focus the mental spotlight on few things. Not do them better, just do less. I find reasons but it's just the difference between a spry kitten and surly cat.
The narrowed beam doesn't catch this page as much. Plus I'm not writing and this isn't the crutch "to start the juices flowing" it sometimes was. It's just a place to write my thoughts, which too many damn people I know know about now. I often muse about writing somewhere else as someone else where no one knows. You'd know if I did.
I'd disappear.
But not today.
Not "slay the dragon" will. That kind of will is easy. Chekov said "Any fool can survive a crisis; it's this day to day living that wears a man down." Almost right; not quite. I'm not worn down. It's just the construct of my mind isn't pointed this-a-ways.
Let me elaborate. I do too much. Way too much. Often I've commented how like a child I throw the crystal balls of commitment high in the air.. five than six then ten then twenty... how pretty they look! And soon enough, one too many flies up and they all begin crashing down as I grasp to catch them. I stand among the cracked glass and I feel bad for a while. Then I open a new box of balls... ad infinitum (as long as you have the balls to continue this way).
As I've grown more cranky and set in my ways (which is different from aging), I've begun to parse it down, and focus the mental spotlight on few things. Not do them better, just do less. I find reasons but it's just the difference between a spry kitten and surly cat.
The narrowed beam doesn't catch this page as much. Plus I'm not writing and this isn't the crutch "to start the juices flowing" it sometimes was. It's just a place to write my thoughts, which too many damn people I know know about now. I often muse about writing somewhere else as someone else where no one knows. You'd know if I did.
I'd disappear.
But not today.