a rush to the inevidable end
I don’t know if I ever really felt it, but whatever reason I have had to feel a sense of leisure over the last several months, being not a student, not a worker, and - unlike my friends who share those two non-statuses with me - not a parent, is quickly disolving. Oh poor me! I always hate opening gifts because it is the rush to the inevidable end. Boy, do I sound like a pessimist.
I just read a friend’s review of a play on VanGogh’s madness, and was reminded of his brilliant acting in a play I directed a few years ago. My last play. I do miss the collaboration, although I think we were both too busy to notice it properly at the time, and for myself anyway, still so new to it - there was a constant state of emergency, especially at the end when it really was becoming beautiful and it would have been nice to breath it in deeper.
I am presently living a supplemental life. I have set it up that way. Supporter, assistant, reflector, filer; catching up, visiting. It is a relief, but maybe a little sad, a little outside. But inside is such an anxious mess for me. I have longed to catch up, to step back, to reflect, to write.
I have blamed the world for not providing balance, but I am sure it is myself. I shake my leg impatiently as I write this because I should be doing something else.