I can scarcely see if anything I do is worthwhile anymore. The same passion and rigor is there, but doubts have always been growing, and keeping the details of a brimming world from overwhelming my meager means has never been a simple matter.

There are only so many waking hours. Days rush past so precipitously. I can only do so much.

I dream of flat tires and being late to the theatre and getting lost in an airport. I dream of ticket stubs and tire patches and invalid boarding passes. Since when have dreams been enlisted as implements of mediocrity? I worry that I'm becoming that which I most fear: boring.

I push through these slow mornings in hope of an accomplished and brimming life, differing from what I have by way of emphasis, texture and means. I must look at things with a slanting eye, as it were, and force my pupils to dilate and focus, to take these bits in and push those others away, and thereby see what I need to see, changing the emphasis to see what I hope to see.

But it is a dangerous and even a cruel thing, to live in hope. It can be as bitter and rending as it can be lovely and inspiring. We should all be so lucky.




Sallyacious said...

Maybe you're dreaming about these things because they represent stolen time. Time where you are forced to slow down and wait and look around you.

When did you last fill your creative well?

Anonymous said...

oh Paul. Paul. Paul. You are soooooo...