I could pull the work-ate-my-life excuse about how working 9-5 (though more accurately, 8 – 4.30) and having a grey cubicle to call my own has warranted little time for me to share, to write, to take time and slow down.
But I refuse to bow down to caffeinated consciousness, to the courtesy of hotel food, follow-up calls, board meetings and e-mails and how, if you aren’t careful, life turns to a hazy blur. Too easy to slip away, too convenient to overreact and have it die down, to then surrender to the tomfoolery of the brain, or worse yet, to emotions.
But I am not a visitor to my own mind and things aren’t all bad. Writing is an act of such self-involvement that I forget to do it as often as I need to for it to keep me sane. It seems that 2013 has been, in many respects, a readjustment period where I have grown tired of listening to recycled paranoia, recycled neuroses, and recycled excuses. Yet I am still finding my own footing, and if I ever find it, I hope that it will be like you, the you who is so iconic because you aren’t a person who is even real. A stranger whose pulse I never quickened because my heart never got close enough to brush against. Who, with time, slipped away only to be left behind as a person who is near-perfect and augmented in the way only memories can be. Lithe and simple and fuss-free, beautiful yet so distant from reach.