... To write. When I feel low and confused and empty, in a place where my soul reaches out and embraces nothing, I just want to feel, express, journal, play with my mind—it’s a way of getting things started again.
Please forgive me if I take up this room called “time” in your life for such a useless endeavour. I feel compelled, impelled forward to press these keys and write something for you and for me that is inspiring, interesting, challenging and revealing. It’s really a practise exercise and who knows where it will lead.
I know it’s a risk. You might end up hating me for wasting your time intentionally. Worse still you might think me a bore. And this leads me to fear...
We live in fear from time to time. Fear becomes a real course, a pulsating destination. I was in a licensing centre only recently and I noticed all the nervy candidates pacing—all the officialdom and structure and straightness. Waiting is painful in these places. Where does one look? What does one do for thirty minutes as one’s daughter takes the test?
I feel empty from time to time; have I told you that? I can’t work out why. It’s a way station of the soul as the nudges and urges of an uncomfortable man take some twisted, tired, uncoordinated shape.
And this time that I and you have invested right here... what does that mean? Where does it take us? To some coherent nowhere, that’s where.
And the point? Why does there always have to be a point? Sometimes we just “are” and that’s all. The ‘blah’ days come and they go. We barely remember them. Yet they define our lives as much as the meaningful days. They take us back to a root where we belong nowhere but with ourselves, and even that’s debatable.
Come on, there must be a point to this!
No. There really isn’t.
Again, I can only apologise. Sorry.