Monday, December 19, 2016
Somewhere between here and there it got lost or sidetracked or forgotten. The intention was usually noble, if not always practical. He would make that call, answer that email, submit that article, follow up with gratitude, make an amend, sink his teeth into the circumstances of his life. But in translation, usually about the time the sun came up, the fears began to bind and paralyze him. Where did they come from? Years, he thought. Years of habit, default, inertia. As the sky lightened in the east, he felt them extending their tendrils, the first inklings of inaction that would become steel cables if he let them. He sharpened a blade, one he had been carrying for a while, but was reluctant to wield. He threw some fuel into the furnace of his imagination and began to form an image of another possibility that might grow in place of the same old same old. It was hard to focus on his work, felt like a betrayal. But no one was there anymore to leave behind or to answer to. He began to hone the blade on a stone. The edge he put on it made shaving easy, the strop, lined as it was, with diamonds.