November 7, 2004 by Allen George
“Why do we _____ the _____ ?”
I’m staring at my keyboard, head cradled. Five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I can’t write.
It’s my second cup of tea today and uncharacteristically, I’ve made it with milk and sugar. The radiating heat is a constant reminder of the here and now. Humorlessly, I typecast it as my lifeline to the present – my real life.
Real as opposed to fake? No.
‘Real’ as in how I live the majority of my time. Silent. Maybe best described as very different. The disconnect from Saturday to the present is jarring, a phenomenon accentuated by my insistence in defying the clock. Now, my _____ are foremost. Obligations, pending decisions and…realizations. Yesterday these shuffled to a corner of my consciousness, a gulag in which they were unwilling participants in a sporadic game of whack-a-mole. Now, under the harsh dual bulbs that frame my seat, freed, they exercise a powerful counterbalance. Reevaluation occurs. Like the light in which I’m bathed I’m harsher, more critical of my person as well as preceeding actions, emotions and thoughts. A very pragmatic side of me flexes stronger; its queries and comments alternatively scold, lecture and slash. My outlook diverges from yesterday’s. It’s my rude awakening.