It occurred to me today: It has been a long time since I did the thing I say I love to do. What does that say? Do I really love it? Or am I confused, clinging to the thing where I once found some escape and enjoyment. What is this torture? This strange limbo of questioning whether you should simply give up, bury it and move on. End the suffering. Of believing in something, fully, but not being able to muster the courage to mention it to others, unless you're at least three glasses deep. But some deeper part of you knows you can't give this up. What else are you living for? There is some kind of invisible loving in the distance between you and the thing you long to be doing. It weighs on you, you feel its presence at any given moment. But at the same time it feels forever, just outside arms reach. Always out of reach, to the person who refuses to participate, in what matters most to them. I wonder, at the end of a life, what will matter more: Years of that invisible loving at a distance? Or the real thing, lived and felt in the world? You must get your act together.
