55 pages into the first of two weekend projects it is starting to look like a long weekend.
I’ve noticed the gray hairs collecting like flies at the base of my chin. I study them in the mirror and wonder how Stephen King does it. How is it possible to do everything and be everything to everyone all of the time. Sacrifice is the obvious answer, but that too is wrought with difficulty. For example, what can I sacrifice? TV? Video Games? These are the outlets of a brain best served flashes of light in sequence. Or perhaps a greater sea change is in order. Perhaps it is time to segment that section of my life and find renewed pleasure in the simpler things, like time with the kids and the occasional call back home to the city of my birth where friends live and thrive and imagine and dream and I, trapped here by the walls of my own crumbling imagination, am left to wonder how I got so stuck in the first place.
New York, see, is the place I have always been most productive. This was never a matter of fewer distractions, but the culmination of very many motivated people who created a sense of purpose the spilled across the atmosphere as evening rain. You cannot be in a place like that and not possibly want more for yourself. You cannot be in a place like this and not possibly want to slow down and point your nose towards fresh grass, drinking in the beautiful impossibility of the place.
I miss New York. I need to find my way back more often. I need to find my way back there in my heart and mind and grasp once again that carnal drive that set me free in the first place. I need to do it soon too.
I’m running out of time.