Sitting in an office building surrounded by a dark ground of artificial stars and melancholy blues in my ears makes it hard to think of professional things. Like faxes. And paperwork. Or monotony.
Things happen out in that world beyond the glass: communities birthed, remade, art crafted.
I used to think my not finishing college explained why I feel… unfinished. Then I blamed falling in love with the most wrong person. But maybe it’s as simple as unlearning how to serve the wrong master.
Sitting on a pew far longer than I should, lip-serving a god of mediocrity seemed to keep me safe. Instead, it kept me sedated, blankly watching life pass me like some marathon of not-bad-enough-to-change-the-channel scifi. Cynicism kept me bored, jaded, but at least it helped the time pass.
Now, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I’ve realized I want more, something… other, but I’m comfortably middle-aged. Most have kids, sedans, roots. I have a found hound scared of men in baseball caps, a PT Cruiser, and… a newly discovered faith unsettling a formally sedated life. Far more seeds line my pockets than roots show in my life.
Now feels like growing pains, all jangled joints and loose ends. I have glimmers of could-be’s… but I see enough to know I need more help than I could possibly provide for myself. Or even know where to find.
What about night makes thought wander towards beauty and stars? Why does the part of me made of the divine so achingly, constantly call quite so sharply?
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