Kurrs' Digital Tapestry of Words

The last few days were a bit much.

I stop for a moment, noting the repetitive trope of presentation and then reclarification, almost always summed up as "it was said in such a way as not to be inaccurate but requires clarification as the standard use of the phrase has the wrong connotations for this truthful context it intends to represent".

Hum.

Nonetheless, it wasn't bad, just a bit much. The source of my sadness lies more cleanly in my life situation. Here is my life, my body, and my time. Have it, in exchange for currency. There is nothing wrong with selling labour, and oftentimes it nets the employee better than if they made their own way. Like now. But it stinks of waste, of time spend merely clocking in time, and, ultimately, waiting for a debt to go away too slowly. Thirty one? Thirty two? How long until I'm finished waiting? How many years am I going to slowly piss away before I do something that has some long term benefit?

I continue to have some things that have deeper permanance. I learned to snowboard, quite well in fact, and I won't let that go. I now have a cello, even if I can't play it worth shit. I write a webcomic, even if I won't tell anyone that I do. I write here, but that's hardly new. But it's not enough, I want even more than that as merely hobbies. I want a camera, I want to dance, I want to actually practice, I want to exercise in a way that isn't work. And that doesn't count the primary time sink of what I do that is actually economically productive.

What am I doing? Or, more importantly, what am I going to do? I write here about soft light brushes of personality and skin, between myself and vague ideas of women that I have, am, or will dance with, each in their own way. But is that my life? Is that the source of my sorrow? No. My heart is merely one organ, and, taken metaphorically, it sometimes seems to barely matter. My romance is a passtime, a dangerous one at points, and one that matters to me more than most things, but that is all. No matter how much I rail at the skies and weep and tear and sorrow over the fact that you aren't bearing my children, neither would I change anything about myself to change it. I wanted you to love me enough to stay with me forever, because to me you were everything and sometimes still are. I almost married she who held me primarily, and still I never felt for her like I felt for you. I'm still not over you. But still you don't really matter. You are illusion, for which I did once refuse to change over. Fuck second order desires, if I don't want something I don't want something. No matter how much it hurts to not have it.

As I said, the last few days were a bit much. So I don't feel poetic. But I spent today wondering, doing alot of wondering. If perhaps there was something I actually want to be doing, that I actually should be doing. My work, whatever it is these days, has become something I do just because, not for any particular reason. It allows me to tread water, but stifles my ability to live at precisely the same time as it enables it.


Maybe I should be actually doing something...




Written On: Home Computer
Currently Listening: Tunng - Good Arrows (album d/l)