I wish I could say I was doing something that was so stimulating I had no time to sit here and write. But I don’t.
I spend the littlest time possible getting ready in the morning to get in my car and drive to work for half a day. I do errands if I have them. Then I come home. If I’m lucky, I’m able to sit down and write something, but most often now, whatever I write is less than meaningful. It just reminds me that I am not finding the time I used to have.
Like now.
I’m supposed to be getting ready for work. The only reason I’m sitting here is because I didn’t get up at 5:10 to walk. I don’t have to drive semi-comatose and less than thrilled about having to go to class teenagers to school today.
What I can say about this strange life I’ve been leading for the past few months is that it’s very mechanized, and I’ve thought much about people who have led this type of life for years.
I would have dropped out of the human race long ago if I’d had to do this for any length of time. It’s monotonous.
My brain can’t engage when I don’t have extended periods of time to do things that require thought. I’m able to just get started, to begin to think, to warm up, and my eyes flit to the clock on my monitor reminding me that I need to get dressed. I need to put make up on. Comb my hair.
Get in my car.
I don’t want to.
I don’t feel like it. But I will. And I will see pleasant people today who will smile and say hello. I’ll do my work, take care of my errands, and come home.
I’ll take care of a few things that can’t wait any longer, and then the evening is here.
I have no clue what’s going on in the world because my short time in the car allows me the barest dose of NPR and its incessant diatribe of Iraq.
I did get to watch Gordon Ramsay last night on Hell’s Kitchen though. I need to rage against something like him.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Range, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
I’d say that just about sums things up. Like I said. I need to rage about something.
Anything.
