Chrisonomicon

Sunday, July 27, 2003

I took a week off from work. That much time without productive activity makes me feel coated in thick oil, a hydrophobic slick that slipped me through as though it was only a few days instead of seven. The deluge of incessant nudges from my conscience and the daily afternoon thunderstorms rolled off of me in drops. When I don?t have a routine, time means less; I haven?t decided yet whether it pales like a vampire at daybreak (exposed) or wanes like a new moon (obscured). Ignorance of time is sweet and beautiful. Ignorance of time helps to dream.

This encapsulation that I feel, this distance from the world, keeps me from experiencing anything substantial, however. I look at the paper lampshade on my nightstand as I attempt to read and then realize that twenty, thirty minutes have passed and I?m still on the same page. When it takes mental effort to focus on the present moment, I know it?s time to return to my routine of work, school. It?s all a cycle. I?ve been dreaming long enough. Time to realize those dreams.