"In short it's been one of those periods that comes to all men I suppose when life is so complicated that with the best will in the world work is as hard as hell to do" - F. Scott Fitzgerald, in a letter to a friend.
Distractions distractions everywhere, and a weakened will to ignore them.We all go through times in our lives when doing anything productive borders near the edge of impossible. Be it studying for exams, completing tasks or just sticking to errands - we search for ways to free ourselves from the shackles of day-to-day monotony.
For most people, life is a decent scotch; complex and layered. "It's complicated" is not just a way to explain your messy relationships on Facebook, it's a frequent state-of-affairs. The last few weeks have been complicated, and as I made my way through thorn bushes and dimly lit forests, I became a little lost.
I've managed to come to the clearing. But I feel a little powerless, a little anxious, and very frustrated. Recent events and conversations swirl in my head, a tangled mess of threads with beginnings but no ends. When I try and coerce them into stitches, they just become more tangled.
I spent the last week doing the minimum amount of work in order to have the maximum amount of play, unusually for me. But there is a certain corruption in the Summer sun that encourages you to misbehave.
I'm not normally a frequent drinker and am most happiest when busy with work. In saying that, I immensely enjoyed the late night drinks and spirited adventures. Going to see (half) a wonderful play, karoke, late-nights and picnics in the sun, Vines and apple pie, friendships old and new.
These distractions provided temporary respite. But upon waking, I discovered that the threads were still in a knot and I was still limited in the power I had to straighten them. In fact, a few more were now making an appearance because life did what she does best, and threw me some curve balls.
Out of my routine, I felt vulnerable. Hungover, tired and emotionally wrought, I spent my Sunday doing nothing except cooking dinner and watching way too many episodes of Everwood. By evening, although I was physically feeling better, my mood was not improved from such laziness.
It is with relief I greet the beginning of a new week in order to envelop myself in the comforting arms of work and writing. Less comforting, but present nonetheless, are the stress and problems that are just a part of life. It was fun an' all to play hooky, but it begins to itch when I waste time.
And yet, my thoughts follow slowly behind my sentiment. I find myself drifting into hypothetical's. What if...
How easier would things would be if we had a choice in our wants and desires; if you wanted the person who wants you, the job that's handed on a plate to you, the leftover chicken in the fridge as opposed to the steak you don't have.
There is a thin line between imagination and fantasy and pondering on world's not realised is almost as pointless as trying to inhabit them.
So I write. I work. I structure. I make plans with friends and family. I carry on. I do what I can, with what I have. For what else is there?
I continue to search for a star to lay my hand upon. And when I do, I will put it in my pocket and bring it home. But in the mean time, all there is is time. Time is the solution, time will mend things that are beyond my control. All I can do is decide what to do in that time.