By Parson Thru
Oh, Sunday. Sitting here among my lists. Books half-read, stories half-written. I hear the silence behind the ringing in my ears and see the sun’s cold, distant shine upon the trees. So much to do, and yet so little.
I contemplate throwing out the rubbish and sorting the recycling, then walking into town for bread and mouthwash. I think about the move to Madrid, so much to learn, so much to leave behind. And in the end I see that it’s all a distraction – boredom broken by gratification.
To find some meaning I need this silence and I need a room filled with people, mostly drunk.
Else life is reduced to a mediocre sport – winners and losers, victors and vanquished – the spoils nothing more than two tons of white metal and a number plate to hang like the skulls of foes – and a whitewashed cell on the Costas. Home-from-home. Boredom.
Purpose. Success? At what? Another week of overcoming odds, to begin again the next week or month or the next project?
Purpose. Contentment? To be happy in one’s place and time? I see this around me. The elderly I know, who aspired to little more than they already had. They die contented deaths.
Purpose. Perfection? In one’s devotions to a spirit? Or maybe just the writings of a Law. In the giving of life to a painting, prose-piece or music? Striving through agonies to reach communion with those who seek it.
From the moment of our birth we are waiting. Filling the time to fend-off boredom. Finding entertainment. Seeking distraction.
Companionship. The company of family, friends and strangers. Someone to share the path, if only for a while. The recognition that we are one.
Work. Bread upon the table. Success and satisfaction. Identity, belonging. So easily taken away.
Vocation. For the look in someone’s eyes. The satisfaction of restoring hope.
A good life. Having been born, what to do with all this time? How to live it? "She lived her life well. Did the best she could".
In the end, maybe that’s it. Borne by the tide, buffeted by storms and dragged by every maelstrom, we do the best we can.
Outside, the sun is shining. The guitar leans against the sofa and I’ve said my piece for now.
Time to throw out the rubbish, walk to the shop and do the best I can. Maybe, out there somewhere lies peace.