The Weather's Not the Only Thing that's Schizoid Around Here (or) ...
You're Not Neurotic, You're Just in New England.
Today's existential crisis takes the form of a free poetic rant. Please ignore at will.
Outside the sky is a brilliant blue - that strange, wet, saturate blue of late winter and early spring. Sunlight strikes the white granite surfaces of buildings across the street from me and paints them in startling hues of cyan and buttercup.
In the distance gray clouds are lowering, massed together in the triangular shape of rumpled bedclothes. Rain is coming.
My desk is floating amid the weather, behind the plate-glass windows, poised like an ice cube in a cup of hot tea. I'm melting - I'm moving. I can feel it - something is about to change.
But what?
I am pushing open ivory gates, looking inside drawers, turning out the contents of crumbling cardboard boxes, running my fingers through the lining of a long-neglected train case. What am I looking for? Where am I going?
I'm trying to find out.
I am, in every essence, living day-to-day - but soon the cube will melt, the gates will shut. And I will be on one side or the other. I'm not sure how, or when, but I feel as if in the next few weeks I am going to make some very important decisions about... something. I'm done treading water. I may not be ready to swim, but I am ready to look for the opposite shore.
Today's existential crisis takes the form of a free poetic rant. Please ignore at will.
Outside the sky is a brilliant blue - that strange, wet, saturate blue of late winter and early spring. Sunlight strikes the white granite surfaces of buildings across the street from me and paints them in startling hues of cyan and buttercup.
In the distance gray clouds are lowering, massed together in the triangular shape of rumpled bedclothes. Rain is coming.
My desk is floating amid the weather, behind the plate-glass windows, poised like an ice cube in a cup of hot tea. I'm melting - I'm moving. I can feel it - something is about to change.
But what?
I am pushing open ivory gates, looking inside drawers, turning out the contents of crumbling cardboard boxes, running my fingers through the lining of a long-neglected train case. What am I looking for? Where am I going?
I'm trying to find out.
I am, in every essence, living day-to-day - but soon the cube will melt, the gates will shut. And I will be on one side or the other. I'm not sure how, or when, but I feel as if in the next few weeks I am going to make some very important decisions about... something. I'm done treading water. I may not be ready to swim, but I am ready to look for the opposite shore.