“Your cold mornings are filled with the heartache about the fact that although we are not at ease in this world, it is all we have, that it is ours but that it is full of strife, so that all we can call our own is strife; but even that is better than nothing at all, isn’t it? And as you split the frost-laced wood with numb hands, rejoice that your uncertainty is God’s will and His grace toward you that that is beautiful, and a part of a greater certainty, as your own father always said in his sermons and to you at home. And as the ax bites into the wood, be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it. And when you resent the ache in your heart, remember: You will be dead and buried soon enough.”
Because it’s 4 am and I’m working.
More accurately it’ 4 am and I should be working, but again I find myself in a staring contest with a blank page. Knowing that I will always win a staring contest against a blinking cursor is my only consolation in the hour when night meets morning and I, once again, am the one who has to make the awkward introduction. Playing the hostess to the passing of time is apparently the only occupation for which I am qualified, if only by the plainest fact of my being born.
I’ve been thinking lately about the way I’ve spent my time, the way I spend it still. I’m yet unsure if the hours spent trudging through the agony of my own relentless self doubt are a complete waste. Or, if like the crumpled ideas littered around a waste paper basket in some unimaginative rendering of a cubicle- these hours were necessary martyrs to the few glowing examples of time well spent that I delicately tack on the soft wall behind my computer screen so I can glance over every once in a while and convince myself to keep trudging.