REALITY?: Time

It’s scaring me, this day, this nineteenth day of January. It signals the closely approaching end of my free time. Just as I’ve settled in and come to love the loss of learning by the books, the semester rears its ugly head once more. I have no argument with learning, just that it’s being coupled with daily deadlines; borders I must cross by Tuesdays to prepare for Wednesdays to journey deeper into words all weekends to be ready for every Mondays’challenge. But there’s so much more I’ve found to do!

Uselessly I mourn the winter’s lack of structure which I somehow didn’t know enough to map myself. Writing: None, except in here. Reading: Little, no time for pondering the words of someone long dead in body but with a spirit nibbling at my conscience every minute of every day. One thing leads to another, to another, to another to no end. I waste my time in blogging, writing blogs and reading blogs and somehow the word just has no class or intellectual sound at all. Except that…

I have learned. Without a syllabus to guide me, I have learned. I HAVE written. I HAVE read the lives and words of peers as well as wisdom left by sages on yellowed papers that magically relive on lit-up screens right here upon my desk. I have been pushed to delve deeper into life by reading how you are living yours; the thoughts on everything you seek the same as me, and different to lead me even further astray in my wonderings. Just hours ago I found The Speculist and questions on our deaths and dying habits and beliefs. Isn’t that one of our most philosophical, psychological, historical and religious questions of great concern? And this…in a weblog.

I’ve never cut myself so deeply to look inside for a soul before. In my way a tangled viscera of daily questions too life-dependent to push away without inspection.

I’m tired. I am excited. I am resolute and non-accepting. What else is there to do? I must pick up the load and move along. It ain’t heavy, it’s my life.