Time is an implacable enemy. I’ve fought this battle with time and its constraints for as long as I can remember. Which is, granted, not as far back as I once could remember, middle-age being what it is.

I feel certain that the things which require doing by me — jobs, projects, tasks, etc. — things which cannot be delegated, assigned or outsourced, would easily fill every waking moment of my time from now until my death, and possibly not be completed. And this is assuming I could STOP. Accrue nothing else to “the list,” reach a point of gaining momentum where I was scratching things off without the list lengthening.

This, of course, is impossible. The very enterprise of my life is a pointless farce, and yet I continue.

I have only recently learned that I have the privilege of continuing to pay for what I refer to as The Most Costly Vacation in History, a month-long trip to London, not taken by me, which has cost me not only thousands of dollars, but my relationship as well. And all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Tomorrow, whether I will or no, this trip will cost me another $1,400, drawn inexorably from an account as bare and overtaxed as Ma Hubbard’s cupboard.

And yet I continue.

Last night, I was able to escape for a time. I spent a lovely evening with a submissive in her 20s who seems to enjoy my company, and is young enough to find me “interesting” rather than “jaded.” This was made all the better because it occurred away from home base, which has lately come to be a living metaphor for all my loss and failure, one which I spend my days occupying.

But escape is a transitive state, and we can only run away so far, and for so long. So here I am. I’m not normally one to allow myself the luxury of catalepsy; but today, this afternoon, for just now, I’m welcoming the paralysis.

And then I’ll continue.

As I do.

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