All this time spent thinking about living. And planning on living. But not getting around to just living.
There’s always tomorrow. I’ll begin doing amazing and wonderful things tomorrow. I just need today to rest and prepare. Fill the tanks. Ready myself. And then tomorrow I can write the most amazing novel ever written. Pen the most beautiful lyrics to a song ever sung. Sketch the most exquisite portrait, one that will leap right off the page.
I float around, hinting at things, but never landing on the surface of acknowledgement. But it’s true. It’s like I’m waiting for something undefined. Whenever concrete things arrive I panic and, though I still go ahead and do them, I’m almost waiting to return to stasis. Like there’s an overwhelming fear of change and movement and finality. I write, and in the random passages and vignettes created I feel I’ve discovered something beautiful. But I’m terrified of taking it to completion. What if it doesn’t make it? What if it doesn’t live up to it?
Nothing ever lives up to its promise.
So it hovers, on the edge of consciousness, something that could one day change everything. But instead it lies trapped in embryonic form. ‘So go! Live! Write!’ I tell myself. And fill my time with thoughts never fully formed, and dreams that evaporate like a mist upon waking.
There’s something there though. Something just waiting to form. To set. To be. Hopefully I can find it tomorrow.