Work, like the gluttonous vulture that it is, has torn my days to shreds and left not a whole lot behind. Bones, with a few pieces of skin.
Typically, on Super Bowl Sunday, I think of ways to amuse myself in the emptiness of a world turned inward (toward the flat screened TV). Not this year. One day looks no different than the next. Every day is Super Bowl Sunday!
I look out. It’s winter. So they say. I haven’t really felt overwhelmed by the cold, I haven’t felt overwhelmed by much of anything in fact. Except for words scrawled on pages of dense books.
One day, and another, and the next. February days of steely gray. For a brief second invaded by a brave ribbon of blue.
But not for long. Such a narrow ribbon! A limp, trivial nothing, soon pushed aside. The good did not prevail. Hope, stabbed and sent flying.
You can't help but think tragic thoughts on days like today. Though even tragedy is a luxury. And I cannot afford luxury at this second.
Work. Devilishly aggressive and domineering. Like the worst kind of life's partner. Sigh...
