All Hours

I am on the hunt for wordcount today, when I’m not busy helping the dog out from being stuck in the neighbor’s yard due to her long rope and a few trees. Things here are quiet, except when she barks. Of course now, I hear thunder.

“What a piece of work is a man?”

Apparent law has appeared in my life, as it does in all our lives. The thesis is this: When habits form they appear immutable. And in this immutability there is a certain amount of doomed happenstance. But the reality is the freedom we all possess, though potentially illusory, is also potentially humanizing to the point that we can do whatever we wish. As long as we think the way we do, we will be trapped in the way we are, and our philosophies will remain constant. In changing how we think, the potential is to change the way we live.

I understand this a little bit, I think. I dare to imagine that perhaps I will change each day. But I have to convince myself that when I fail to change I will still be functional. Partial functionality is better than no functionality after all. I am here to drone. I am here to work. I am on my way to the hunting grounds of nouns and verbs and adjectives.

All the relevant material I examine points to an inexorable, inevitable conclusion: that my thoughts are worthless without actions. This is a final destination I’ve anticipated to the point of presumption before. But my pretensions are showing now, aren’t they? Regardless, I must learn in my heart that which my mind already knows. And that answer is quiet in my mind, but just as true as anything.

“The work is all my concerns rolled into one.”

My fears must be subdued or ignored. And I must step onto the stage, moving to the front to say my lines into the pages of my book, or the book I have been paid to write.

I hope this wasn’t too confusing. I had an urge to write a blog post more like Jerry Holkins over at Penny Arcade, because I find him funny and sometimes maddening. No features today. I’m still powering up to work through this freelance book.

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