I feel as if I’ve been here before. Like I’m traveling in circles. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t this be getting easier? Shouldn’t I have a thicker skin? It doesn’t seem any easier at all, one could say it’s the other way around.
Please stop being so sweet. Thank you.
There are few of us, the poetic souls, the ones who worry and think, usually too much, who are on edge, who are nervous. The Neil Cassadyies of this world, wracking our brains, trying but failing to slow down and relax, always thinking, worrying, sweating. We turn to each other whenever we need someone there. We’re the starving artists, the grammatically challenged writers who write for the sake of writing, who make mistakes, who live. We’re the eternally uncool, the outsiders, those who care.
We want the world, we want the adventure. We see the multitude of ways, but have no clue which to take, always thinking about as many of them as we can. The world doesn’t understand us all that well, and we spend too much time trying to understand it. We try to care less, to think less, but it’s a curse, we can’t stop. We care and worry about the little things, the big things, everything in between. We feel. We dream.
I get up sometime in the morning - too early, says my body, but then, morning really is nothing more than a synonym for ‘too early’. I know it will be a long day, I first head to the office so I can print a document which I must then take to the other side of town. I’m still annoyed by things which seem like they are stuck in the previous century. It’s the future, damn it, get with the program and allow me to e-mail my official documents, thank you very much.
Anyhow, on my way across town it obviously starts to rain, heavily. I get back to the office and head straight for the vending machine for my helping of caffeine and sugar. The eternal debate rages in my head for all of ten seconds - Snickers or Twix? The choice is, for me at least, a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, unlike my choice of sugary drink, where I stick with the philosophy that the original is always best and grab my usual Coca-Cola. I had a phase where I often drank Pepsi, but it passed quickly enough. After about a half hour of getting ready to get some work done (which basically means checking and re-checking email while at the same time slowly working through my list of news and other happenings around the Internet, nay, the world, with the brilliant technology that is RSS), disaster strikes. In walks an ex-coworker who now lives abroad (note that this is a Friday afternoon). Obviously, an immediate trip to the nearest bar is planned and undertaken.
Two beers later and I’m lightly buzzed and back in the office with plans to get some work done. Sadly, I have no choice in the matter - there are three things which need to be done today. And that really means today, not ‘tomorrow masquerading as today’. Looks like another long day. The director, who’s usually the last to leave, wishes me a nice weekend and is out the door at five - I remain until seven in the evening.
Since I’m meeting friends for beer at eight anyways, I don’t even bother with going home. Instead I head out on foot towards our bar, thinking of grabbing something to eat somewhere on the way. Chinese would really hit the spot. While I’m walking, I consider my other options, but after consulting with my empty stomach, Chinese is voted to be the best choice (narrowly beating out kebab). Not really sure whether to get the sweet and sour soup, though. Though it is by far my favorite Chinese dish, I don’t think I’m hungry enough. next time, then.
The place is the sort of cheap, fast foodish, no-frills affair which is perfect for a melancholy meal by one’s self. Alone save for a couple other customers, I contemplate nothing in particular, just slowly letting my gaze wonder here and there. A cop comes in and orders some take-away, I wonder if he’s just gotten off work and is heading home, or if he’s in the middle of his shift and has to return to the station (which is nearby). In a twisted sort of way I like the graveyard shift. To quote Batman: “The darkness welcomes me, like an old friend”. The cop leaves and my eyes drift towards the small fish tank nearby, an almost empty affair with only a few small goldfish lazily floating around. Aren’t goldfish the goats of the fish world? You have to respect their will to live, though.
Slinking my way out to the street, I pull my collar tight and thrust my hands in my pockets while setting of at a fast pace. I tend to walk fast, but the knowledge that I’m already late speeds me up a bit more. The city is nice, nicer than I remember it. More people, more bars and cafes, few of which could ever hope to be called seedy. Still, it is charming. I finally get to our bar, greet my friends and drop in a chair. And, for the the time being, the world seems an OK place.
Ever feel like you’re on the precipice? Like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, on the verge of the new. It could go any which way, you don’t know. The paths are not visible, they’re nothing more than shadows and promises of what might be. It’s not scary, it’s terrifying.
And at the same time, it’s one of the most exhilarating slivers of time. It’s the ultimate here-and-now moment, where there are no limits and the possibilities are boundless. Of course you’re shit scared, it’s what makes you human. And as such you can’t help but wonder and daydream of all the possibilities. You imagine what could unfold, where your ways might take you.
And, once again, it feels damn good to be alive.
Note to self: coffee and beer are not the cure for a splitting headache.
Why oh why does it have to be so complicated? Such rocket science? You try to convince yourself that it doesn’t matter, that you’ll forget about it and move on. But damn it, can’t she help you along by not being so wonderfully sweet?
I’m driving home from work on a Friday afternoon. Gridlock, traffic everywhere. I’m meeting a friend for a cup of coffee, but I realize that it will take me forever to get there. I see all sorts of possible routes and their permutations in my mind’s eye, none of them attractive.
Then it hits me, there it is, a few hundred meters away at the next intersection. A lone road, not much traveled, which winds away. It’s in the correct general direction, though it will take me in a round-about way to my destination, easily doubling the distance. But it’s empty compared to these standard streets. It winds through a couple of small forests and three villages. This makes it sound like it’s longer than it really is, all in all it’s a twenty minute drive. It’s also my road - one of my favorite drives close to home.
My heart starts pumping, blood pressure rises. I feel the adrenalin starting to tick. I turn off, have the car in second. Slowly come by the last two houses… then I’m off. The accelerator is floored, the car leaps into action. The engine spins, three, four, five thousand revs. It’s like an animal which has been caged for too long. It’s happy and alive, and so am I. At the red zone I shift into third, quickly catching up to two commuters on their way home. I’m by them in a moment, then hard on the brakes for the next turn
Into second, come around, accelerating out. Again, the tires squealing, the engine full of live. I’ve turned off the radio, the only music I need is 5,000 RPM. A smile creeps onto my face all by itself, this feels damn good. I slow down at the first village, shift up, taking it easy. My heart is still going, my nerves at their edge. I slowly wind through the village, then we’re off again. Long, fast turns, slower, tighter ones, bum!, in, out. Again I come up to a slow car, I shift down into second, waiting for the chance. I seen two turns ahead, there’s the straight bit of road I’m waiting or. Roaring by with two wheels on the embankment, he’s out of my rear view mirror in what seems like a heartbeat.
Damn it’s good to be alive.
There’s nothing like a beer in the middle of the day to take the edge off the past week. The latest article completed and sent off, I now have a day or so of off-time. One could get started on the next project, but I’m a firm believer in not rushing things. God knows there will be more than enough to do in a couple of days - but we won’t worry about it until we get there.
Douglas Adams said he loved deadlines - he loved the whooshing sound they make when they go by. I sadly must agree, there’s nothing like the feeling of last-minute panic to get the creative juices flowing. Or any juices really, usually it’s not the creative ones which need the flowing. I find that the shot nerves of too little sleep and too much work coupled with four twenty-six in the morning are actually quite conductive to creative work.
Sadly, shot nerves coupled with caffeinee are not the best for getting real work done, work which needed to be done the day before yesterday and the deadline is in four-fucking-hours-what-the-hell-are-you-doing? But such is life, for especially those of us who sometimes enjoy living on the edge (or are too lazy to move away from said edge).
Another late-night working session, though this time I’m firmly planted behind a keyboard. I’d like to say it’s the type of writing which only stops every now and then for a moment of reflection on what’s being written, but it’s not. It’s writing which demands frequent trips to the interwebs, and the occasional glance at a spreadsheet.
I’ve done the measurements and collected the data - hopefully enough of it. I’m now encapsulating it in words, finding meaning and trying to convey said meaning as eloquently as possible. I hope to explain something new to my future readers, to instruct and enlighten.
