Why, when I see so many dearest to me choosing deeper into their lives, do I find myself choosing out? I flee from self-thought whilst chasing the white rabbit into tunnels of longed-for quiet.
Survival hasn't the luxury of dreaming. That's a pithy cop out. I suppose, though, one doesn't consider the vast, interminable ocean when struggling to regain footing on a shore of wet rocks.
When I dream of a writing desk, my stomach turns and I'm thrust into thoughts of a "paying" job. When fanciful what-if's tickle future, the present load of mail is delivered - full of bills and short a paycheck. When I catch up on some blogging time, I think, I really should get back to checking craigslist.
Yuck, this sounds like guilt. Financial despair. Self-deprecating analysis. Ah well, at least I have my health.