It’s happening again. My calendar is attempting to control my life. It’s attempting to take charge of every day, forcing me into a regimen of rigid discipline. The calendar clamps my freedom in its powerful jaws, refusing me the flexibility to do with a day what I will. Instead, it insists on an exacting schedule that grips me so tight I can’t breathe.
I have allowed this to happen. I’ve permitted the universe to impose an agenda on me, rather than impose my own agenda on the universe. That’s the problem with calendars. They connive and cajole and collude and conspire to usurp one’s free will, replacing volition with harsh demands.
Calendars engage in their demonic undertakings the way vicious clowns lure children into houses of horror, with sweets and candies. They use seduction to schedule attractive engagements, then drag us into hour upon hour of unpleasant obligations in what I like to call the “between times.” That is, the times between choice, the mandates that straddle opportunities.
I’m considering the pros and cons of setting fire to my calendars or drowning them in thick tar so they can’t escape and take control, again, of every waking hour.