chopping through the thicket

I’m counting down by weeks because not only do they fly by quickly but there are fewer of them than there are days. I blinked, and it’s Saturday again. I have 38 more Saturdays to go, which is way better than 268 days.

I don’t hate my job anymore, I’m just exhausted. Maybe it’s because I know that I won’t be teaching much longer (the plan is a couple more years max) but I’m going full throttle. It’s that sprint before the finish line, and my students are better for it. I think I am too in a way.

That said, I need to go jump again and let the 120 mph draft at the edge of the troposphere strip away my negativity and stress. I haven’t reached my limit, the needle is in the yellow, maybe orange, but I need that physical release before I get in the emotional red. I physically ache, and I cried this morning for no reason. The warning signs for impending meltdown are there, and it’s been only two weeks.

Let’s change the subject.

I’m reading two books, or I was until I started back at work, but I’m not in the mood for either of them right now. I’m considering starting a third. Joyce this time. He’s a baroque music piece that dances around my insides like soul candy. He’s good medicine.

I’ll get my truck cleaned, too. That always makes me feel better.

I’ve been thinking about painting small squares of canvas, one here one there, to express my moods, and then hanging them on a wall in my new little room that I’ll get one of these days when we buy a house. I could start hanging them now, but I won’t. I feel detached from this shoebox we’re renting, and I’m not interested in hanging my emotions on something I have no investment in.

And I haven’t been running, but I’m going to this weekend. I’m mentally committed to the idea of being a runner, of taking on this thing I’ve never wanted to do. I’m sure there’s a logical reason for my illogical behavior, something psychological, cliché even. But fine, sure, I’ll eat from the hand of whichever facet of human nature is responsible for the phenomenon. The nonconformist in me is fading—I don’t feel my stomach turn at the thought of fitting a label. I really don’t care, and I don’t know whether that alone sets me apart from existing in-groups or lands me square into the 40-something could-give-a-shit crowd. Either way, I’ll be running alongside a group of 5k’ers soon, drowning out the world with the sound of a thousand feet battering the pavement.

In the meantime,

I’m going to put my mood on a leash and drag it to the bookstore, then later I’ll run it to death. I should be better by evening.



Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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