Ever so slowly the realization dawns on me. I am now merely going on autopilot.
Call me narcissistic. It’s OK. What’s not OK is realizing that I threw away my compunction to write more than a year ago. And along with it my desire to live and to laugh and to love. Such shriveled shell. It’s where I find myself right now.
I tell people to soar, spread their wings and let their feathered appendages touch all possibilities. But I don’t buy that sort of natter for myself.
Busy. I pretend to be that. But what I’m actually doing is escaping. Digging a hole to China. Or to other geographical locations. I’m an ostrich. Flightless and constantly getting sand in my eyes. My power of speed (from zero to Mach 3) is useless on a plain where I can be a target even from 2 miles away.
You’d think that I only post stuff here when things are a mess in my personal life. Well, you’re not really off tangent on that one.
If I crash this plane now, who’d pick up the pieces? Would I smell like grilled pork tenders when the fuselage goes up in flames and I failed to bail out in time? Who knows? Who cares, even?