This happens to me quite often. I find myself sitting late in front of the cold glow of the LCD wondering what it was that I used to spend so many hours lapping up and gorging myself on throughout the nights. I crave input. I have a stack of books next to me all begging for attention, but something about net publishing seems more immediate, more fleeting, more important to read now before it disappears forever in a moment never to be found again.
But it’s all in my head.
And so it goes with these sorts of things, my being one of the least afflicted by far when it comes to the desire to be forever aware of the moment passing by, trying to keep step with fashions and fancies, pouring so much life into the pursuit of being there in it then throwing it away to grab hold of the next thing coming to be. People empty their lives into keeping up with a treadmill, paddling furious against the current. But you know the drill.
I’ve spent more time lately walking the world and making with the peace, hoping to be struck by some manner of epiphany or inspiration, but all I’ve been hitting is static. The days seem to skip under my feet faster and faster, and I have no idea where they’re running to. Every window I find just seems to open out over greed and vanity, neither of which I would consider my bag.
Sometimes I just don’t know what to make of my options.
And always a flicker of light from the mirror on the wall for distraction, the image of a man growing old, alone.