It seems only fitting that I should find myself here tonight posting my final draft for 2011 while noting that it's only my seventh post of the year. I will probably find myself years from now wondering what could have kept me from writing. And to answer I will probably remember this year as one that contained mostly stress, strife and general discontent mostly of my own making.
But I really have no regrets. What good are regrets anyway? They serve no purpose save to make you feel miserable about having felt miserable. And since I cannot change what has already been, I can simply look forward to a new year, a new beginning and the hope that somehow I will make those much needed changes to promote better health and a better spirit for me and for those I love.
In the Running for the World's Shortest Poem
Copper pennies. Water fountain wishes.
Waiting on dreams.
Waiting on dreams.
Sunday Morning
Far too early to be awake on a Sunday morning and yet I'm almost reveling in the quiet solitude save for the sound of the washer currently spinning out a load in its attempts to rattle the rest of the house awake.
Golden sunlight skims across the tops of the trees and pours itself like liquid gold across the darkness of my hardwood floors filling the house with its soft translucent light. The only thing that could make this moment better would be a steaming cup of coffee by my side. Alas having been spoiled so recently by the Keurig coffee machine at work, more specifically Timothy's Italian Blend, the folgers sitting solitary in my fridge lacks the same temptation.
Golden sunlight skims across the tops of the trees and pours itself like liquid gold across the darkness of my hardwood floors filling the house with its soft translucent light. The only thing that could make this moment better would be a steaming cup of coffee by my side. Alas having been spoiled so recently by the Keurig coffee machine at work, more specifically Timothy's Italian Blend, the folgers sitting solitary in my fridge lacks the same temptation.
The Unsuspecting Unexpected
Sometimes I like to send unexpected emails to unsuspecting people. Emails that make odd statements. Statements that are often meaningless and untrue. For example, "I want to be a ninja," was a message I sent last week. But I don't really want to be a ninja. I'm just not hardwired for violence that way.
But what I like best is when those unsuspecting people who read my unexpected emails write back... Today's response, "So do you still want to be a ninja?" received yet another unexpected reply.
"No. Today I feel my true calling would be handing out turkey legs at a Renaissance Fair."
And this my friends is why even when I'm in the most foul of moods, I can still make time to laugh.
But what I like best is when those unsuspecting people who read my unexpected emails write back... Today's response, "So do you still want to be a ninja?" received yet another unexpected reply.
"No. Today I feel my true calling would be handing out turkey legs at a Renaissance Fair."
And this my friends is why even when I'm in the most foul of moods, I can still make time to laugh.
Insomnia
The inability to sleep when your eyes really want to close. Or the consequence of going to bed at 8:30 at night.
I'd say more but there is a bedroom ceiling I've got to get back to staring at.
I'd say more but there is a bedroom ceiling I've got to get back to staring at.
An Imaginary Life
The exactness of what he said I can't remember.
Something along the lines of a suggestion. (As if he were anyone to be making any that might make sense.)
"Get your head out of the books," he said. "Go out and live a life."
I should have said the first thing that came to mind... But I held the truth from tripping across my tongue.
Instead I replied, "Make believe people are nicer."
I saved him the reason behind my words. Things he might understand. Like make believe people don't insist you drink vodka. Or try to douse your reason with wine. Or leave you without a word after you've become used to having them around. Or pretend to be your friend when they've already proven that they're not.
Maybe my books are indeed the better place to be... It seems there isn't a man alive - at least not in my life - who knows how to be a man.
Something along the lines of a suggestion. (As if he were anyone to be making any that might make sense.)
"Get your head out of the books," he said. "Go out and live a life."
I should have said the first thing that came to mind... But I held the truth from tripping across my tongue.
Instead I replied, "Make believe people are nicer."
I saved him the reason behind my words. Things he might understand. Like make believe people don't insist you drink vodka. Or try to douse your reason with wine. Or leave you without a word after you've become used to having them around. Or pretend to be your friend when they've already proven that they're not.
Maybe my books are indeed the better place to be... It seems there isn't a man alive - at least not in my life - who knows how to be a man.
