The gaps in the noise of the world are the windows of opportunity that allow me to hear my thoughts. Meditation helps some of the time. Often though there’s not the opportunity because of the pace of daily life.
Actually that’s a lie. It’s all about power. Having the power to slow down or speed up at your own volition is outside of my power while I’m working a 40 hour working week.
I envy the ability, the privilege to move at ones own pace.
More and more realise that the source of my depression is from the realisation of how unfulfilled my life has been. In fact that was the root behind the age reboot last year, 40 is the new 30 (The last 10 years have been awful I’m declaring a do-over)
Being Black British rather than African American I’ve been playing catch up with some of the vocabulary and cultural memes.
Nothing describes my current state of despair as well as the phrase “A dream deferred is a dream denied”
In other news the novel is taking shape, in a practical “I’m actually doing something sense” rather than the procrastinating “I’ve thought about it” sense. I can honestly say I only feel happiness these days when I am writing or reading. Everything else in my world is a numb blur rushing past my minds eye. Like a brain damaged patient doing physical therapy as I organise whats in front of me whats behind my eyes begins to organise itself into a steadily more coherent mass rather than the mess I usually wake up as.
Every now again when I’m unsteadily steering my way through my own personal storm I’ll think out loud.