Yesterday morning I sat down to a dreary day at my desk, and started slithering across the keys until all hell broke loose and I found myself at a board meeting, surrounded by 50-something "old boys" who were... get this... listening to me.
I figured I'd post what I started yesterday, anyway -- just not to lose the feeling.
* * *
It's been a long time since I spent a morning's existence entirely within the confines of my brain.
It is a very pretty brain, regardless of the occasional burps and barfage that spews forth when improperly invoked.
I curled up in a massive bottle-green Descartian leather armchair at 8am yesterday [ed. note: Wednesday] morning.
I thought of Dave, upstairs on an operating table, and slowly savoured the metallic splash of gritted teeth as I willed him to make it back to me.
I thought of Dave, and the discussions we'd had the night before, his concerns and support with regards to my upcoming career movements and opportunities.
I thought of Dave and our desire to have a family, how in-line we seem to be, despite our fears that the other doesn't really want what they say they're wanting.
We both have/had a desperate case of Too Good to Be True, but just as I am slowly acclimatizing to the fact that...
yes he really does love me that much, and yes
he really does want to go through everything that a starting family goes through, and he wants to do it with me, and yes
he really does love me that much.
The two points residing in entirely different spheres, and yet each such a necessary neighbour of the other.
I have always been a master of circular thinking, eight hours in a descartian armchair most certainly sent me spiralling about myself.
But it was good. Wracked with worry and fear and occasional frustration, but I spent eight straight hours
with myself.
Occasionally breaking to wander the ventricle streets behind the arteries that I drive past but never ponder every day.
Breathing in air that already reeks of spring, and thinking.
Just thinking.
Thinking on the benches outside the old folks' home, thinking on the boots of the workmen as they tromped past -- neither whistling nor ignoring me as they have in other cities and other lives of mine.
I thought of the future and the oceans we have left to iron out, I thought of work and how no matter the frustration with the lack of scintillation to the job that the offered me -- I'm me, and (if yesterday is any indication) it is neither pay nor title that will stand between me and the utterly improbable.
I thought and breathed and ran cycles through my mind, a terrain that has for weeks now been far too occupied with keeping other people just motivated enough to breathe.
The corporation is a terrible place this month, reeking of despair and giving up. Politics are afoot stronger than ever, and so many hands are tied behind their backs that strong men have fallen to petty bursts of venom.
But this month will pass, and it will pass into next year -- and never had I had such a year to look forward to.
The universe is whistling by as always, and yesterday I stole the time to curl up in the waiting room and actually listen to a few bars of the cosmic tune.
I'll tell you a secret -- it is still so very beautiful.