"Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run."
Blue, resist the urge to use facebook. You can do it. Good luck.
Cats and dogs can be friends. So can cowboys and indians. So can we.
Why try to be the best when there's no hierarchy in heaven?

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Aptly Named

I read a lot to forget about the life I lead. I read about other people´s lives — some real, the majority fabricated — and I read much more than my ailment, if you could call it that, really allows me to do. I guess I'm stubborn that way or just afraid to die in my sleep. I've turned running on empty into an art form. The point is that I'm very much aware of my escapism and I was wondering if you are too.

When the sun is shining, I like to think that my life isn't so bad. I've got a job that would pay me reasonably well if only I had the energy to work full-time. I've got a roof, a shitty roof but a roof nevertheless; I've got a kind and dashingly pretty wife who puts up with my grumbles and growls; I've got a shitty car that's able to put a smile on my face until it breaks down for the umpteenth time; but I still feel like I'm not the person I always thought I would be. Most of the time I wake up and all I think about is bills, bills, bills. I must be doing something wrong. I know I can do better. I should do better. I can swim so how come I think I'm drowning? How come I cannot afford a trip to Bora Bora? Sure, I've got four Ted Baker suits, but I got a lucky 70% discount plus the idea is for them to last at least ten years or more. Besides, they are just my way of keeping colleagues at a safe distance. It's a game worth a buck or 2.

The real me prefers the comfort and safety of his couch coupled with a luring novel or a creative comic. I want to get out of here. Get me out of here! Isn't it ironic that the sensible part of my brain urges me to live life to the max while the emotional part of my brain (about 80% would be my best guess) tells me I need a cooperative body to be able to live life to the max, so lie down and shut up. Always obeying the voices, I close my trap and read. And read. And read. Escapism. You may know what I'm talking about. It's my way of forgetting about myself and my failures. It's my way of forgetting about my worries and my fears.

Right now I'm sad, I'm restless. If I were the crying type, many a salty tear would be running down my blue cheeks and I'd need a blow... dryer. But the fact that I never do only serves to remind me of yet another one of my failures — and a very basic one to boot. So what I really want to do is finish that 1000-page Spider-man omnibus that's been sitting on my shelf for months wondering if I'm still capable of finding joy in the ludicrous and the nonsensical. Did I mention that the ludicrous and the nonsensical don't come cheap either?

Anyway, I just wanted to talk to you, is all. I hope this hasn't tainted your day. If it has, Blue and the voices apologize. I like to think there's a difference between whining and trying to find some balance, but I might be mistaken. I'd say there's an 80% chance of that being the case, but who's counting...

Tell me, are you an escape artist, too? If so, what is your specialty?

* * *

Don't drown.