PEACE

I have always thought of myself as somewhat of an intellectual. If there's a problem, I have always been able to muddle my way through and figure out some kind of logical solution, or at least an acceptable solution.

There are things in life, however, that defy logic. That have no solution. They just are. They aren't problems or issues or anything that needs to be fixed. They just ARE.

I have wasted a great deal of time fighting this. It didn't feel natural - everything is supposed to have a solution. Everything has a yin and a yang and a balance, right? It is our nature as human beings to try and make sense of things we don't understand and to look for solutions, even if there is no problem in need of solving. We dislike not being in control.

But the truth is, we aren't. In control. There is no control; we are hurtling willy-nilly through space and time and have no command as to when we become and when we eventually are no longer. We are born without our knowledge of being conceived; we live through the grace of our own free will; and when we die, we're usually snuffed out rather abruptly and without ample enough warning to fix everything we broke while we were here.

The fundamental problem with learning, knowing, and finally accepting this fact is that the knowledge inevitably comes to us far too late to be able to relax and simply enjoy our lives. It usually takes facing our own mortality in some fashion or another to have the mere idea of non-control pushed into our consciousness. It takes quite a bit of internal arguing after that to believe it; and even more to accept, if not actually embrace, this hard-learned lesson.

Now, I have heard that the true knowledge of one's own finite existence is a cathartic event that fills one with peace and tranquility, That one gives over to the Celestial Design Committee, God, the Angels, whatever, and is filled with existential bliss and joy. Make your peace, give over... it's all good and beautiful...

Bullshit.

Trust me, when you're looking at the big door to the other side and you have all sorts of unfinished business behind you and all sorts of life left un-lived, all sorts of loves left un-explored, places you wanted to see, people you wanted to have a freakin' cup of coffee with... you grab onto the doorframe with your fingernails and toes and fight with everything you have left for one more damned minute.

Reality

Fantasies are wonderful. They can help you tune out the mundane, the unpleasant. If you're lucky, you can ride them for a time -- maybe long enough to make your world a little less lonely, a little less harsh. Maybe remind you that you're alive, at least for a while.

But they end. Reality, as it will, creeps in and cracks that fragile magic world. Sometimes shatters it with the blunt force of a baseball bat.

Hopefully you will be left with something good to remember. A page in the book of your life that you can turn back to from time to time and smile, and feel the ache of the bittersweet longing that will inevitably accompany the memory.

They always end too soon.

Hello...?

Sunday afternoons for a writer are lonely.

Granted, the uninterrupted block of time is more than welcome. No phone calls, emails... nothing but a whole ten to fifteen hours to do nothing but write.

The problem?

It means I have nothing to do but write.

Friends and neighbors know that I'm unlikely to answer the phone, respond to instant messages, texts or emails... much less be agreeable to going out, so they don't even bother anymore. This should be a good thing; I should be grateful to them for being so supportive. Don't get me wrong.. I am grateful for their support. Really.

But it means I feel obligated to write. Oh, I get sidetracked. The dog needs to go out, there's a load of laundry that needs to be folded, I should call Mom. Maybe I should check my website and see if I've had any new hits, do I have any voicemail? Oh, there's a great movie on...

You see, writers, as much as we're driven to write, are notorious procrastinators. To actually sit down and concentrate on nothing but writing means that we actually have to face the demon that resides within; that creature that fills us with fear that we'll have nothing, nothing of any value to write. That our life's work is crap and it won't sell and the publisher will run us out on a rail and have us blacklisted so nobody will ever work with us again. So we look for distractions. Any distractions. Bless my friends for being supportive, but I sometimes really wish somebody would call me up and save me from this mental torture.

But I still won't answer the phone.

Time

Time's funny stuff. When you're anticipating a happy event, it always seems to take forever to arrive. Christmas, to a little kid, is never going to come. I guarantee that same kid's parents are thinking, "Christmas? Again? Already??!"

But when it's something serious, it becomes a 'deadline'. Who thought of that word, anyway? Tax deadline. Those two words are enough to keep the most stalwart of us awake at night. And deadlines creep up on us far too quickly, and no amount of preparation can help us feel confident when the deadline arrives. I think it's the word.

Dead. Line.

In Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, 'deadline' is defined as "a line drawn within or around a prison that a prisoner passes at the risk of being shot." Cross the line, bang, you're dead.

In the every day world, we use the term cavalierly as a way of describing a finite time frame. "I have to turn in this report by the five o'clock deadline, or there will be Hell to pay." But really, what's the worst thing that can happen? You'll get sacked? I seriously don't think your boss will come into your cubicle and shoot you in the face.

Still, the concept of time is very relative, and its definition changes throughout our lives. To a ten-year-old child, five years is an eternity; of course it is. It's half of her whole life. But that same person at forty will view five years as a very small amount of time indeed. Now it's only an eighth of her life. And ten years after that, it's only a tenth. By the same token, a single day can feel endless, but a year goes by just like that.

Deadline.

I really don't think I like that word.