"Life is what happens while you sit around waiting for life to happen."
-James W. Breece
-James W. Breece
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
I've managed to pull myself out of bed, for now. I'm still stuck in a Xanax induced haze. It's wearing off, but slowly. I know the routine. I'll shake it off within the hour. Until then, my focus is sketchy at best. I'm trying to look ahead over the next five weeks. I'm trying to make a mental list of all the things that I need to accomplish in that time. Five weeks exactly. It feels like an eternity from this end of the time continuum. Sadly, I know myself well enough to know that it won't be enough time. February 22nd will come too quickly. That is the day that I'll be moving from this small apartment and this strange little city that I came to, without a plan, over a year and a half ago. I don't really have the motivation today to dress myself, let alone take the necessary steps toward sorting through my junk, cutting the dead weight and packing up the things that I'll move back to Ohio.
There's a lot to do. So, of course, here I sit at the computer, still in my long underwear (winter pajamas of choice) and big fluffy woolen socks. It's a chilly morning. The sort of morning that would make a big fluffy bathrobe a handy addition to the ensemble, but it is currently being commandeered by the dog as a bed. I'd make her move, but it's already covered in enough dog hair to make it completely unappealing. She's being good, so why ruin that anyway? I've settled instead for a nearby Tool t-shirt. I've worn it now for 3 days straight. This is how I know it's time to leave the City of Roses. I'm becoming one of "them". Somewhere under the mountain of laundry that lays strewn about the room is a pair of sweat pants. I'd really like to have those now, as well, but the effort I know it would take to find them makes me sleepy just thinking about it. I have, however, laid my hands upon another t-shirt, which is now wrapped neatly around my head, ninja style. Now I can function.
My laziness will prevent me from making any sort of physical progress toward the move, and I'm burned out on trying to plan routes and coordinate motel stops that will accommodate big dogs, so my only choice at the moment is to try and make sense of it all. What did I think I would accomplish here? What have I accomplished here? What was the point? Where did I leave my mark? Will the city, or its inhabitants, even know I was here once I float away on a late February breeze? Once I get home, will I know that I was here? Has the City of Roses left a mark on me, or will I slide comfortably back into the way of life I knew before I left rural Ohio?
What happened? What's about to happen?
I've managed to pull myself out of bed, for now. I'm still stuck in a Xanax induced haze. It's wearing off, but slowly. I know the routine. I'll shake it off within the hour. Until then, my focus is sketchy at best. I'm trying to look ahead over the next five weeks. I'm trying to make a mental list of all the things that I need to accomplish in that time. Five weeks exactly. It feels like an eternity from this end of the time continuum. Sadly, I know myself well enough to know that it won't be enough time. February 22nd will come too quickly. That is the day that I'll be moving from this small apartment and this strange little city that I came to, without a plan, over a year and a half ago. I don't really have the motivation today to dress myself, let alone take the necessary steps toward sorting through my junk, cutting the dead weight and packing up the things that I'll move back to Ohio.
There's a lot to do. So, of course, here I sit at the computer, still in my long underwear (winter pajamas of choice) and big fluffy woolen socks. It's a chilly morning. The sort of morning that would make a big fluffy bathrobe a handy addition to the ensemble, but it is currently being commandeered by the dog as a bed. I'd make her move, but it's already covered in enough dog hair to make it completely unappealing. She's being good, so why ruin that anyway? I've settled instead for a nearby Tool t-shirt. I've worn it now for 3 days straight. This is how I know it's time to leave the City of Roses. I'm becoming one of "them". Somewhere under the mountain of laundry that lays strewn about the room is a pair of sweat pants. I'd really like to have those now, as well, but the effort I know it would take to find them makes me sleepy just thinking about it. I have, however, laid my hands upon another t-shirt, which is now wrapped neatly around my head, ninja style. Now I can function.
My laziness will prevent me from making any sort of physical progress toward the move, and I'm burned out on trying to plan routes and coordinate motel stops that will accommodate big dogs, so my only choice at the moment is to try and make sense of it all. What did I think I would accomplish here? What have I accomplished here? What was the point? Where did I leave my mark? Will the city, or its inhabitants, even know I was here once I float away on a late February breeze? Once I get home, will I know that I was here? Has the City of Roses left a mark on me, or will I slide comfortably back into the way of life I knew before I left rural Ohio?
What happened? What's about to happen?
Shazbut... nanu-nanu...
It's been quite cold in New York. I slept last night with a pair of leggings under a pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved tee under a sweatshirt, and my comforter.
And as for what's to come... you can't know. You have to let those questions go.