You must be bored to tears. You are here, on this blog, for inexplicable and indefensible reasons. You learn nothing of consequence here. Yet here you are, at least at this moment and for long enough to read these words. Perhaps it is morbid curiosity; wondering what it’s like to observe the thoughts of someone who obviously is inching ever-closer to the precipice of a 10,000-foot sheer cliff in his quest for flight. Or maybe it’s the irrational appeal of experiencing madness by proxy. I share those thoughts. All of them. And more. I cannot quite grasp the point of returning here almost every morning, spilling the often indecipherable contents of my mind to anyone who happens to stumble by. My inability to comprehend the purpose notwithstanding, I continue to do it. It is possible that my rationale is hope; hope that someone will see evidence of a kindred spirit in the randomness of thoughts and words and emotions that I throw at the screen. Or it could be a selfish quest for recognition; narcissism expressed on the public stage of semi-literacy. A good psychotherapist could have a field-day in determining “why” with me. Yet maybe not; he or she might quickly determine that it’s all a mask; an artificial face crafted with my keyboard and fingers to hide the real one—the blank one. The fact that I do not actively market my piece of internet real estate suggests, to me, that my reasons for writing and publishing here are internal. Not driven by an interest in boring you. But I could be wrong; it’s not uncommon.
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Forest scenes transform abruptly on the morning following the first assertive chill of Winter. The season’s introduction of cooler weather—a month or more earlier—changed the trees and shrubs from a kaleidoscope of thick, leafy shades of green to a thinning tapestry of brown, yellow, gold, and orange. The scope of that introductory change, although immediately noticeable, did not compare to the radical metamorphosis brought about when Winter unapologetically announces her arrival. Suddenly, a three-dimensional oil painting becomes a two-dimensional water-color. The volume of leaves that concealed the sky behind and above the trees shrinks to a trace. Leaves that blocked the sky now litter the ground. Trees that had seemed chunky and stout instantly appear thin and graceful. They appear to have shed the bulk of sumo wrestlers, instead becoming acrobats that dance in the slightest breeze.
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I woke this morning, for the umpteenth time, just as daylight began to slither through the trees behind the house. I wish I had stayed up when I got out of bed around 4; had I done it, I could have had more time to think, ponder, contemplate, and mull. But, instead, I went back to bed, hoping to sleep, and I did. But I dreamed another utterly confusing and troublesome dream during the subsequent two hours. Another reflection involving clients and past employers I loathed, disturbing and regrettable interactions with my late brother, and other artificial experiences I would rather not allow in my head. My head must be clogged with misgivings.
