I’m trying something new, a bit of a writing challenge for myself. I have 15 minutes. To write whatever comes to mind, and see where it goes. I have gleaned the idea from blogs and forums that I have read about writing, and I’d like to give it a try. I of course will be going back through it for spelling errors, but if I’m to do this, I’m going to follow the spirit of the exercise and write unbidden thought.
And the clock starts.
Instantly I find myself wondering if I even have 15 minutes worth of writing in me, without forethought and planning. Is writing in this manner more or less communicative than thinking a piece through and trying to structure it for better readability?
I find myself looking at a picture of my wife, as she was walked down the aisle at our wedding, just over 5 years ago. Before the Lupus. Before the doctors and pills and aching joints and tired eyes. She looks no different to me. We didn’t know that the disease was lurking for her, waiting to strike. I’d marry her anyways, even if we had known. On a side note, I still like her Chinese wedding dress more than her classic white one. I have a picture of her in both side by side, and I know which I like better, even though she looks otherworldly in both.
On the same desk I have a picture of my daughter. She stares right at me, small smile on her lips, bright blue eyes. My wife doesn’t favour the picture, she feels it shows the sadness that was in my daughters’ eyes, but then as long as she lived with us, she had some sadness there. She looks like me in so many ways, and doesn’t in so many others. It seems entirely wrong that such a beautiful creature should come from me… and that she should be gone while I remain.
I find myself thinking about a few friends of mine, and what they are going through. I’m typing with my eyes closed (I actually find it pretty cool that I can do that) and I can call their faces to my mind. I hope my one friend finds what it is she’s looking for. I hope the other one can too, and that she realizes what she is worth. Another comes to mind, and I hope that she succeeds. I ache for all of them, that they can obtain or achieve what it is that they are seeking. Life is too short.
Is this all there is to life?
I am trying not to be jealous or envious of the successes of other people that I’ve seen lately. I have a hard time with that though, as I have always been ambitious. Perhaps that’s stupid. Shakespeare said that “Expectation is the root of heartache” and I think he knew what he was talking about. Of course it leads to doubts. It seems that success is for other people, and some of us just grind our gears. You find yourself wondering if you have made a sane estimation of your own skills, and are not moving on because you aren’t actually good enough to do so. It is hard, though, being told repeatedly that you are doing wonderfully… without the commensurate evidence of it.
I am intensely aware of an itch behind my eye. It keeps being drawn to the timer. You’d think that a timer would be a detriment, how can you focus on what you are doing when you’re racing against a clock? Running against a never ending crawl that seems to get faster and faster, while you slow down. I think staring at the ticking seconds is contrary to the point of what I’m doing here. I have 6 minutes or so left. And I find myself being asinine and worrying about whether or not what I’ve written so far is really 9 minutes worth.
I am thinking about the weakness that I’ve been feeling, while everyone around me has said that I’m so “strong.” Losing sleep, walking slowly, unable or unmotivated to do the most basic of things outside of what I absolutely must. I tire out in a heartbeat. Things that take no energy before sap it so very fast now. We’ve sought some assistance, and are now having someone come in once a week to clean our home. I don’t know whether to feel ashamed or relieved. But it’s desperately important that we have a clean place to live in, somewhere were we can let down our guard, and just BE instead of DO.
I’ve never thought that I’d be in a place where I’d be writing these things. I never saw my life, and the lives of those I love, turning out as they have, or ending as they did. The world laughs at our plans. I find myself getting angry again… at all the people who somehow have things fall into their laps. Their lack of planning leads to surprising success… all our planning has led to nothing but a dull ache in our chests and a resignation that it isn’t going to change. I’m probably being unfair to many people… I doubt it comes easily to most of us. I just only seem to see the ones that it does.
I want to say something less doleful though. I quickly scanned the last few paragraphs, and realize how melancholy I seem. So I am trying to bring something else to the front of my mind to type. But I’ve run out of time. There are 10 seconds left, and all I can do is wish that I had of thought of something better to say.
And the clock stops.