I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. Waiting for my leg to heal. Waiting for Ironman. Waiting for my birthday. Waiting for the inevitable hassle that the TSA’s sure to inflict. Waiting to hear from Clarion. Waiting for time to write. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
And it’s a lot of crap. Waiting is the opposite of not doing, and not doing is the same as being dead. The worst drug in the world isn’t tv, it’s waiting. Waiting kills time, murders by inches, crushes the soul one tiny weight at a time. Doing is being, is living, is telling entropy to take a flying leap. Yes, it’ll get me in the end, but, dammit, it’ll never take me alive.
So. Doing. Edit this gawdawful copy. Finish that story. Start another one. Do those stretches. Ice those limbs. Get in that saddle or that pool or those shoes and do, dammit. Let everyone else wait. I need to do.