Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Day four hundred and twelve ... Making time.

I don't have time for this.

The streets are littered with people I know; I almost got hit by a car trying to dodge them crossing the street. 

My time--just like yours--is running out. There are no re-takes. There is no post-production. There will be no after party. What we do today is everything that there is. There is hardly a future at all unless you believe you will live forever. I certainly don't; I never did. It's just that now I wish I had twenty odd years of my life to edit, enhance, colorize, restore, and repair. Now I'll just be happy to wake up in the morning.

All we are all doing--from what I can see--is writing a post-it note to those who are left. A reminder. A memo.

I don't have time for this.

I feel like I'm in a hot air balloon going slowly up, up, up, and away. I don't know how I got here. I don't remember getting in. I didn't get a lesson on how to stop. I'm just here and I'm going higher, higher, higher, into space and it's getting harder and harder to breathe. Not only that, but I can't move as quickly or as nimbly as I remember I used to. I swat at the controls and they just let more gas into the balloon and I lift up with a jolt and get thrown to the floor and hit my already woozy head on the hard wood floor and now I have to roll around to gain my balance and crawl over to one side to peer over the edge to see that now, in the few seconds (or was it longer) that I was on the floor I've lifted up so fucking high that now I can't make out landmarks or even see much light at all. It's awful dark on the other side of the clouds.

I don't have time for this.

I'm still sober, don't worry. I know that there are people who will read this and freak out and wonder if everything is okay. It is. In fact, it's better than okay. I just need to let off some steam.

I need to get back down to earth a little. I need to feel gravity again like I remember it--constant, resilient, maddening, conspiring, reliable, true. But I'm kind of in limbo. I don't know where I stand. I don't know what to do.

I don't have time for this.

I rehearsed with my group who is putting on a show to raise money for the town. While I was there I got a parking ticket. Motherfuckers.

I can't go to the gym because I have a pain in my head that I got from overexertion the other day that made me almost ask them to call an ambulance. I have passed out many places in my almost 39 years on earth, but none since I quit drinking. Now I'm not so sure if I'll be able to keep that record up.

I don't have time for this.

I have masterpieces to write. I have exotic locales to experience. I have superstars to befriend. I have clothes to buy that will make my limbs tingle when I put them on. I have jokes to tell that will reduce the recipient to a quivering mess. I have emotions tempered by years of abuse that have become curious from all the noise upstairs and want to come out, but I don't want them to if they are just going to get beaten for slurping their coffee too loudly (though that is a most unbecoming habit).

I don't have time for this.

Regardless, I'm going to make time. I'm going to get out the old recipe book and concoct some in hopes that it will go to good use. I'm going to see if I can make it work. I refuse to stress too much about it. Because I know that there are ways I used to deal with things that frustrated me that I thought actually helped. Little did I know that they were in cahoots with their aggressor. 

I've still got my hang-ups. I've got my fears, just like you. I don't like to share myself outside of my thoughts but I have, I will, and I do. 

I don't know about you, but I don't have time to waste. I don't have good enough reasons to procrastinate. I don't have a plan b. I don't think about what I used to be like too much, how I used to feel, how I used to be thought of, or how I used to go about life.

Because it's here, it's now, and it's getting late.

Check the time.

Yeah, just like I thought.

I seriously don't have time for this.


Thanks for reading.

F.A.J. 








 


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