Half a page of scribbed lines
Other people's problems are so much more interesting. My own problems, they bore me to tears. Filling out forms, writing dry meaningless papers within narrow bounds, meeting deadlines, writing "daily reflection logs" wherein I reflect needlessly on matters of little consequence, waiting in lines, waiting to be called on, waiting to be misundertood, waiting to wait... and jumping through hoops in the interim.
Sometimes I wish I had a handicap, then perhaps every day could be a corageous journey. "Poor legless Brian, he's so brave! He ran a marathon on his hands!" Alas, I am of sound body. What of mind? I could be diagnosed with a mental illness. My enemy could have a latin name and a list of sypmtoms to defeat on the field of psychic battle. "I didn't respond to the voices today! In your FACE auditory hallucinations!" Again, alas, I seem to be of relatively sound mind.
The sun is out. It shines. It shines with all its might. And yet here I am, ungrateful, wishing all manner of harm and horror on myself for the sake of stimulation. I don't mean to demean those of us with "interesting problems." I don't really want to be handicapped or insane. I'm just bored... and tired... and waiting, waiting, waiting for... the next thing.
Whatever happened to the next thing? There always *used* be a "next thing." Puberty. First kiss. Losing my virginity. Driver's license. First car. Graduation. Adulthood. The chance to neglect my newfound right to vote. Legal drinking. Lower car insurance. Okay... did all that. I'm 35 - what's my next thing? Retirement? Senior citizen discounts? Failing health? Death? Wow... looks like my schedule is wide open for a few decades.
It's easy to see why people turn to God, or drugs, or any all-defining solution. There are some days when I'm too empty to move from the warm flickering light of the tube - not that I ever watch the thing. My friends are all working, or with their husbands, wives and children. Many have moved away, chasing the ever-elusive "job with more pay." I sit here like a park statue, oblivious to the changing season... but also indignantly covered in bird shit.
I had a point somewhere in there...
Sometimes I wish I had a handicap, then perhaps every day could be a corageous journey. "Poor legless Brian, he's so brave! He ran a marathon on his hands!" Alas, I am of sound body. What of mind? I could be diagnosed with a mental illness. My enemy could have a latin name and a list of sypmtoms to defeat on the field of psychic battle. "I didn't respond to the voices today! In your FACE auditory hallucinations!" Again, alas, I seem to be of relatively sound mind.
The sun is out. It shines. It shines with all its might. And yet here I am, ungrateful, wishing all manner of harm and horror on myself for the sake of stimulation. I don't mean to demean those of us with "interesting problems." I don't really want to be handicapped or insane. I'm just bored... and tired... and waiting, waiting, waiting for... the next thing.
Whatever happened to the next thing? There always *used* be a "next thing." Puberty. First kiss. Losing my virginity. Driver's license. First car. Graduation. Adulthood. The chance to neglect my newfound right to vote. Legal drinking. Lower car insurance. Okay... did all that. I'm 35 - what's my next thing? Retirement? Senior citizen discounts? Failing health? Death? Wow... looks like my schedule is wide open for a few decades.
It's easy to see why people turn to God, or drugs, or any all-defining solution. There are some days when I'm too empty to move from the warm flickering light of the tube - not that I ever watch the thing. My friends are all working, or with their husbands, wives and children. Many have moved away, chasing the ever-elusive "job with more pay." I sit here like a park statue, oblivious to the changing season... but also indignantly covered in bird shit.
I had a point somewhere in there...