The unselfish kindnesses that brought me persistent and unmitigated disasters recently flood my thoughts with a tangible frustration. Not to say that I desire an end, mind you. My personality if not my internal, hard wired convictions resist even the notion. Throwing in the proverbial towel would, in truth if not simply in affect, signal an end with a drama not personally acceptable.
Truly, it shall not be done.
But, in light of the oncoming celebrations, the repetitive nature of my existence that not only repeats with the sun, but multiplies with the moon (at least as often as the last of those repetitive functions go undone, or the youngsters in my charge develop, events as consistent as the tides), the preparations for the aforementioned, and (let us not forget) the disasters unpredicted, I must accept a hiatus.
Did I say accept?
Accept, perhaps not, but I must shed distractions.
To simply throw off my source of ordered peace, my required mental exercise, my relentless search for beauty in a dwelling so viciously torn by inquisitive squeals, like a moth-eaten sweater, I shudder. To insult my friends and cyber-colleagues by equating these fellow humans, connecting their journey to mine, to distractions, I fall to my knees in utter shame.
Oh, bother. I just have stuff to do guys. I’ll be back.