Morning arrives like a reliable friend that you don’t always enjoy as much as you once did but you still appreciate out of a sense of loyalty and the soft, easy comfort of familiarity. I’ve always, however, been suspicious of comfort and anxious about routine. What if some other way is the better way? What if I’m wasting the little time I have? I’m not sure why I worry so about it. I doubt it is given to me to save the world. Surely you’d know it if you were the Messiah. If not, then the system is too flawed, doomed. Thoughts like these, fitful but shallow, bedevil my coffee and oatmeal time. Sitting alone with my thoughts, my breakfast, and this blinking cursor cursing at me. I love to be alone, though the word looks sinister these days in a way I never noticed before. A lone man sits alone, typing “alone” into his word processor. Solitude has always represented for me the potential to squander the opportunity to be productive, and I am, above all things, interested in being a producer more than in being a consumer. (No offense intended to everyone else’s products.) These days production has slowed, however. Being alone has mostly been an exercise in breathing, in blinking, in expecting to get started soon. It’s alright, though. I won’t worry too much about it. I have solitude to spare, to burn, to squander. There’s always tomorrow and the promise of newfound resolve, time well spent, productivity. In the movies they represent silence with crickets. That’s not silence, though. That’s crickets. Silence is much quieter.
Hello, friends. I trust you’re well.
Later. Love.
