Been sitting here for over an hour. Starting the writing now. That’s an improvement, I guess.

I’m sitting here with a dog. I’m sitting alone, and awake, and I’m sitting in silence. well, that’s a little lie. I’m sitting here with the sound of a clock, and the sound of Crowded House playing, and I’m wondering as to when Neil Finn will just stop. I wonder when Neil Finn will stop bringing his family into bands. I wonder… jokingly, of course.

But I’m sitting here. I’m wondering how the day will go. As always, this is one of those posts to get warmed up to, for me, for I need to warm up. I can tell that I am typing quite slowly. I can tell that I am not writing my best, or my worst for that matter. I can feel how slow I a going, but I am trying. I am trying to get the words down. I am appreciating the light in this room. I’m appreciating how dull and gentle it is. I am appreciating the dog, lying there on a dog bed, possibly awake, looking awake, just watching, and slowly closing its eyes, but not really going to sleep. Just watching.

Maybe it will go to sleep soon.

There’s a stillness in this pocket of the earth. There’s a stillness in the world, and nothing is moving. There’s… no breeze, actually. Nothing I can see, anyway. How eerie. How uncomfortable. There is no movement outside at all. There’s the sound of birds but the trees aren’t swaying, not even gently. Maybe they are and I’m not close enough to see their subtle movements. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right, somehow.

But this is just the world. This is just the way of things. Winds don’t always blow. Things don’t always move. Sometimes it takes time and sometimes time takes itself. Time takes time to take time and all that, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Somehow I’m going to have a day of charging through things and staying busy. Somehow I’m going to achieve what I’m setting out to do. Only a few more days and they are mine, and I need to make the most of them. Cramming a lifetime into a few days. Always do that, really. Doesn’t make much sense to do it but I keep doing it because I am a fool. I am a fool with ideas and a plan, and I plan to get them all done. Clean things up. Find myself at the end, relaxing, sleeping well, those sorts of things. It’ll be great. It’ll be good. I’ll dig it. Or I won’t. Something will happen, however. Something will be done.

Why do I keep putting myself into these situations? Why, I haven’t even had my second coffee and I’m writing, and I’m writing slowly. I’m writing far slower than I would like! My hands are too cold for this, I deserve better. I’m getting worse. I’m feeling it, and in feeling it I am feeling it. Or not. I don’t know.

So usually this is the point where I start “bringing it home”, but I’m still looking for whatever. I’m still looking for the right words, the right forms. I’m still looking for how to get to where I must, and I’m looking for what direction I’ll be taking in a few days. In a way I already know, but it’s not clear to me. Does that make sense? I hope it does. Always hoping, never sure. Such is the way that I live, really.

But now I must bring this home. I need to bring the post to roost, to rest, to finalise the start so the start can get going and so I can get onto the next thing. That is how it all works, or something. Sometimes. Who knows. I don’t. Do you? Maybe.

I’m a little amazed I got this far, and that I’ve kept some consistency going. I think over the next few days I’m going to try and get more things shared than I ever have before. It’s a significant concentration of posts, sure. It is probably too much. However, I am still going to try. I am still going to give it a go, because I think I can get it done and I just want to really end things on a sloppy note. I want to end things in the biggest mess I can muster, and so hopefully that pans out.

Really I just want to end things in a way that leaves me not feeling stressed. Only a few days, but it should just be enough. And then I am to wherever next. And that’s cool. That’s fine and dandy, as far as I am concerned.

I think I might need to use the bathroom, and that could be why I’m struggling this morning. Should be using the bathroom rather than writing. I am stubborn and all that.

There’s a sense of stillness outside, and even though there’s sound in here, there’s a sense of silence. There’s a sense f emptiness, but this space is full. This space is interesting. This space is just a little still. The world is still waking up, and that’s fine. that’s dandy. It’s just odd, but it’s relaxing at the same time. This whole world is wide and vast, and this one pocket feels odd, but I’m sure that if I were to go outside, everything would reveal itself as being lively. Everything would be in motion in some way. It’d be beautiful, but the outside world always is. That’s how it has always been. It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s the whole wide world and everything that it offers, and we only see so much of it at any given time. We see pockets of a grand tapestry, and we have the choice to wholly, utterly embrace it.

I think I’ve said all I can say now, and the dog has gone to sleep.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 13:42:09

A low sort of writing. Lacking excitement, and perhaps as quiet as the morning, tough without the elegance, grace or wonderment.

Written at Killara.