Friday came again, as I figured it would. I got through another work week, doing the things I usually do. My ongoing project went on. I went to bed each night. I got up each morning. I did the same things, with the same people, in the same places. This is life.
How is it that we humans have gone on for so long enduring this cycle of sameness? Did our ancestors, who had to struggle every day just to survive, appreciate uneventful days more than we do? I feel as if my spirit is struggling to survive this physical existence, readying itself to move on to that next realm. Truthfully, I really don’t know for sure that I have a spirit. I’ve been told that I do, and I prefer to believe it is so.
Something about this gray, drizzly day is pulling me to introspection. When I peer inside myself I see all of the plans I’ve made this week stacked up like a pile of books. The pile is high, and the book I want is at the very top. I can’t get to it without a ladder. I don’t have a ladder. I could start with a book lower on the pile, but if I try to grab it, the whole stack will come tumbling down. I’ll be in the middle of a mess that only I can clean. Should I forget about the whole thing and just sit quietly in the corner? That would certainly be easier. I could sit quietly and try not to think about being a writer, eating healthier, exercising more, making art.
I could sit quietly in a corner and not think at all, if I lived alone, if nobody loved me, if I loved no one. But that’s not the case. I think I have to get up on that ladder, or topple the stack. I have to get on with bringing some color to this gray life of mine. That’s just the way it has to be.