I'd like to get out more. But these long nights, lost in half-awake, half-dream, leave me little energy for extra-curricular activities. My job and life-tasks command my time. Day is divided into morning, noon, dinner, and night medication, interrupted by perpetual jaunts to expedient thrones. I fill the cracks with distractions.
I have the luxury of being alone enough, to know, too much, of my inner thinking. A quagmire of guilt riddled recollections, concocted optimisms, and a smidgen of profound truths. I like and hate myself in a dialogue of seconds, until I hitch a ride on any old deliberation... the lyric of a shuffled in crooner, an articulate audio author, or a well placed podcast.
My self-selected lunacy, lavished on a percolating procrastination, an anxiety riddled avoidance, a pending premonition of hard times to come, or just another symptom of Parkinson's. I am frozen. And then, as quickly, freed. But freed to do what? More of the same old stuff or, possibly, some move, on the chessboard, I just can't see.
I need help from me, yet I stubbornly refuse to be cooperative. On the shaky ground of brunt obstinance. A donkey stance demanding stick. I write this to avoid my to-do list. A quest for an excuse, permission to dismiss responsibility, for all or any of this.
Any con to neglect the inevitable, the master illusion of tranquil conclusion. Somehow get out of doing all the paperwork. To avoid the nasty bits, and nibble here the forbidden fruit of self-delusion. If only not working worked. If only I enjoyed the grizzle as much as the steak. If only I'd get done today, what I need to, today.
Not avoid the inevitable. To do, you know, whatever it was I was doing, before I started doing this. OH, now I remember, I was procrastinating.