Dearest dabblers, inventors of color and space between the lines, my fellow hopeless optimists: I’m afraid I don’t have the time to love you anymore.

I refrain from writing here because I can’t control the whine my words convey. The whine is a sound I cannot abide, yet it persists. Originating in I can’t I can’t I don’t have time, time, time. Though the sound carries on through days and seasons, it never settles into an unnoticeable drone somewhere in my fifty year collection of background noise. The sound remains forefront, high pitched, annoying as all fuck. Can’t can’t can’t time time time. It persists until a life lusty self-possessed Leo such as I begins to imagine shopping for an ice pick–exactly what part of the brain would such an incessant sound be found so that it can be stabbed into silence?

Not having the answer to that question is troublesome.

The ice pick supply in my general vicinity is safe. For now.

Meanwhile, I watch You Tube videos of people cleaning houses dirtier than mine in between the day job hours. I don’t have the time or the energy to seek inspiration, to love art, to say important words that would probably be drowned out by the whine reverberating inside out.

I will try again tomorrow. Promise.

One thought on “Dearest dabblers, inventors of color and space between the lines, my fellow hopeless optimists: I’m afraid I don’t have the time to love you anymore.

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