A whole world awaits. It will have to wait until tomorrow.
The desire and need to act, to take action steps, to take up tasks and processes in the pursuit of productivity as happiness are strong but not as strong as the draw back to rest, to seek quiet and repose, whether the deep rest is a form of being depressed or merely a nominal part of the sine that is life’s wave, the one that is a day in the life.
The effort to hammer out the previous sentence was as lugubrious and dense as the thought flow that walks the imagined path along a day out the door, into the sunshine and along the pavement pounded from point to point, from legs day to another grocery list to check and back to the hand wring of unpacking, counting the pennies that exist but for the fear they will evaporate and disappear.
The longing to achieve and attain, the envisioned art yet to begin, the music and images yet to be sewn together as a tapestry’s seam between the memory’s quilted memories, much as the mother is the needle and thread of a family frayed, longing for something it will never reacquire if it ever did even possess.
That’s the solitude, the quest to peacefully arrive, one more subsumed by relentless caws of the distance murder flying overhead, their midday’s chortled conversation the same frantic and frenetic voice you feel within, the one leaves you stumbling more than able to peacefully abide, once more unto the breach, setting out on the road to Damascus, the ever-elusive place where you hope for it all to end, distracted a tad when you see additional signposts, distances to travel to Gomorra, Hell and Albuquerque as well.
All swell that ends. Well, maybe you’ll have a chance to to get away from it all, even a glimpse into a looking glass to see Alice, The Mad Hatter and their friends awaiting you with that cup of morning glory tea you proposed you may —after all is done and said, you — need to see clearly back to where it all begins.