All I feel I'm doing is waiting. Waiting. Waiting for what? Day off? Kid to get up? Not the weekend, I work almost every weekend. Waiting for that moment.
Before I know it, the day lapsed to noon. I did nothing, it seems. Now, I wait for the lap top to get fixed on my day off.
I'm afraid to write and lose those words. I want to escape to Old Forge and the other fictional town in Ohio, I haven't named yet. The story exhales when I write. The day throws a blanket on the mouth with too many errands or chores I don't do. And as always, never enough time. And I sit, seeming to do nothing, as I wait. The day goes not as predicted. Do they ever?
A lie, they say, never enough time. It is a lie. We make time for what we want to do. But some days, the walk on a perfect May day devours the time. I let it. Even as Harrison piddled too often growing that irritation inside me. My desire burns to fill my day. I try to beat the clock before it rings to remind me to get ready for work.
Interesting as I see the theme of this post, that the novel I'm writing is about Time. Outside of Time. We fight it or wait for it. Some day, I may have too much, but not enough. Or some day, I won't know it. I doubt that I'll lose recognition of time, as dementia doesn't run in my family.
The Techno Demon I wrote about a few years ago on my foray to WordPress unsettles my day. Jesus talked about the little foxes that ruin the vine. Another writer talked about the distractions to keep us from our work. Maybe even the minutes running into