Cold mornings in a tiled floor house always lead to some sort of sitting in a way that one hopes to have their feet elevated off of the ground, unless there is a rug there that helps to separate you from the ground, in which case you generally have some sort of advantage over the tiles.
That is what I have to believe this morning. It is cold and I am on a journey. I am on a journey through words and the loosening of the illness which will soon be replaced by the journeying through data, for there is data out there and I need to look at it and discern number of things. I don’t know what any of those things will mean, but I’m sure that it will all come to light once I have a better idea of what I am doing.
Coffee near my reach. All I have to do is lean over slightly and I will have access to its being. Well, there are a range of motions that I need to perform in order to reach its being and then follow up by pouring it into my mouth and out of its receptacle, but that is not something that I feel much like getting into. There are far too many words that would be needed for the ridiculous amount of detail that I would like to get into and right now there is no time for that sort of tomfoolery.
Or is there?
It is a cold morning. There needs to be some sort of gardening to do. That will not be done, as I am not ready for that. I need to do other things, such as… I don’t know.
I need to cough up more fluids. That needs to be done.
Suffice to say that I’m trying to write myself out of the lengthy hole that I’ve written myself into, but the only way out is digging further down. That is not something that I’m quite looking forward to, if I must be honest. Needing to push through a barrier of sorts needs to be done from time to time, but there are plenty of times in which I don’t want to do a thing in that relation. That said, if it needs to be done, then who am I to keep fighting the inevitable?
Who are we all, really? Where are we all? Are we all dealing with cold tiles in some form or manner? Are we all sitting down in track pants and yesterday’s shirt, rambling on in the minutes whilst trying to find that last remaining kernel of insight?
Is this why we all persist in our inevitable dances? Do we try to find a way out and look for everything else that stands in our way as we simultaneously try to get back into the swing of things?
I don’t know, but if this is something that you can answer, then you must, or mustn’t.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:05:32
I’m seldom certain of the worth of what I write. Probably not worth sharing most of the time, but that hasn’t stopped me thus far.
This came really easy. Just flowed out.
Bot great, but as always, getting there.
On a side note, if I can write (approximately) twenty-thousand words on being in Japan, then why can’t I write six-thousand on GIS-related stuff?
Written at home.