All the Corners

The morning hours are mine, alone, today. Yet the sense I am in control—that I have power over my direction—still eludes me. Intrusive thoughts, tearing through my brain like a runaway locomotive, twist hard steel rails into thin, flaccid fibers. Certainty dissolves into ambiguity. Serenity remains a chaotic broken promise. Perhaps more time—much more solitary time—is the cure. But that time must function like a wax candle. And those invasive thoughts must behave like drops of water—trying, but failing, to soak that wax through and through.

Sitting here, many hours after I woke, I realize this morning’s time was never mine. It belongs to listlessness and its co-conspirators. Even this blog was part of the conspiracy, refusing to let me write and add more to it—or even read what I wrote in the past. Finally, after hours of frustrated waiting, I was allowed access to my editor’s platform. By then, though, my unsuitability for the task was obvious; I was a riverboat captain’s apprentice, attempting to land a supersonic jet aircraft on a baseball diamond in Golden Gate Park. My exercise of a sense of productive control will have to wait for another time. And that is fine; gathering clouds and depressing rain are not conducive to bursts of creative energy.

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I summoned enough motivation during the last few minutes to call the auto shop to arrange work on a list of routine maintenance items; next week. And I called to get an appointment to get a haircut; tomorrow. The rest of the day belongs to lethargy; enslavement by fatigue. No searing agony; no excruciating discomfort. Just a dull emotional ache, punctuated by an occasional, but microscopically brief stabbing pain. The same tedious pin-prick-like sensations whose presence have made themselves known for quite some time. Annoying, but not intolerably so. The little symbol is simply an expression of my understanding of the universe, such as it is. However, I am not especially enamored with most symbols because their original, limited symbolism tends to expand exponentially over time with the insertion of ideas and beliefs by people who had no involvement with its creation. People like me. But my insertion tends to operate in reverse. I like minimal meaning; meaning that can be adopted and adapted by people who share some very broad ideas that parallel the original. But, in the overall scheme of things, who cares? That is an unanswerable question, of course, but it summons answers from every corner of existence.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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