It’s late on a Friday and what am I doing? I’m cleaning. As typical. Just because I had a sudden impulse and a demure kind of energy. I am aware that I’m being paradoxical–seems like I’m regressing, slipping into my old bad habit like a worn-out pair of fuzzy slippers. The sheer shrines I have raised around me dissipate like the ghosts of my companions. Some people smoke, some degenerate into drunkedness–I speak in paradoxes, eat grapes, and obliterate my cash supplies at Office Depot. It’s a wonderful thing, temporary listlessness.
I find my house is like my life. When I clean out a part of it, inevitably, I make a mess someplace else. Old papers come out of the drawers in my room and get transported to the garage closet, for later sorting out. I guess it all comes down to knowing which are the important parts of the closet to keep free of ghosts, and where it is alright to let the junk and cobwebs pile up. And realizing that the more crap you put someplace, the longer it will take to sort out the next time you crack open the door–that is, if the arduous task is truly worth the effort. Unfortunately, time doesn’t stack well in our favor–the chances we miss lie like lost earring beneath a mound of paperwork. The truth about lost chances is that once their promises get burried in the piles of saddness, so do all the possibilities they trail off into.
But we do get up and clean up the mess our old dreams have left behind–we watch time tick away before us, and we wind up wherever we turn the compass. Or the vacuum cleaner.
Sometimes I get the urge to spark up a counter-revolution in these parts, because I no longer wish to subjugate my life to the rule of the messes. But even I know, I am aware, that every path has its rough spots. So, wave hello to me once I’m back on the road.
As for now, well…I have another set of notebooks to tab.
