Not writing. Not thinking. But not drinking either. My brain is somewhere else. Could it be somewhere in these piles of papers and cds that I am making myself sort? It's as if my brain is running some sub-conscious/-rosa/-terranean program which uses a lot of my bandwidth leaving me (Me!) with only enough power to get around without too much danger.
And then these are brain-numbing tasks, this paperwork. Maybe I am channeling all the people stressing about tax time out there. Or maybe I have just turned off my critical facilities and pain/pleasure sensors so that I can keep working on the piles around my house. I did empty two boxes today ... or consolidated them. There's much more to do, but I seem to have a certain amount of focus, even without extra drugs.
The largest accomplishment of the day must have been this: when I felt myself drifting to a bummed-out bottom, I thought I should ... eat? sleep? shop? read? bathe? play solitaire? Nope. Nah. Nein. Un-uh. Non. Pshaw. I thought I should get some EXERCISE. Yep. That's what came to mind first. Let us hope that it is an actual re-wiring and not just an anomaly.
I had not been outside, notwithstanding the ephemeral beauty of a spring day. And I took myself out as the dusk darkened for a mile walk. There were flushes of runners darting about and, always a sign of spring, beauties displaying the lithe limbs of warmer weather. I listened to Aretha as I walked around the 'hood. There were lots of storefront accountants burning the evening oil.
And I have burned enough for the evening, myself. After all, tomorrow is another day.
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