Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Muy Peligroso

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.

3 comments:

mme. bookling said...

i see you jessie-marie.
and i love what i see.

Iscah Mara said...

it wasn't your writing desk i was craving - that is most certainly your dream. when have you ever known me to write at a desk?

i think my fantasy would be a writing sofa with a convertible laptop tray, an ottoman, music and movies at my fingertips, and wine galore.

Benjamin said...

The true survivor hopes for something more. It is a cop-out as you say only if the survivor stays as one. A survivor is a pilgrim or death. Or a you might see her/him, one who creates hope. Dislocation without new orientation is death.