Soon We'll Be Living in the Future.

Storming back by popular demand.

And so here I am, a little earlier than expected. I need to tell stories tonight, to quell the torrent inside of me; to keep my head above the rising waters of these hard-to-stomach days. Not long ago I was standing on the stony banks of a quiet tributary, and now just hours later I am engulfed by this rapidly flowing current. Drive ahead to the next over bridge, string some sheets together and hang 'em over the edge. If I can egg-beater kick like a true child of the water, I'll be able to reach up and grab a hold. Just hang in there, kid. The relief will be palpable.

But what if my arm can't stretch high enough? What if the little strength I have left is not enough to raise my arms above my head? I've always had weak legs, it won't take long for them to tire; for the waters' grasping hands to snag an ankle and leave me adrift... What am I to you?

I've been looking back at what is written on this site, and it's hard not to think I've been a little quixotic. I didn't mean for it to be this way: it seems living quixotically is a trademark of mine. I refuse to admit it is a bad thing. At some point you have to face yourself for what you are rather than wish you were something more. I'm not the only one I know who yearns for that perfect dream to just stick around permanently. It's the coming and going - the capricious nature of the thing - that makes us love romance as much as we hate it.

The word 'mental' isn't in 'sentimental' for nothing.

But what to do, you weak-wristed children, about this discovery? Oh, sure, I can pick out a fault better than anyone I know. But fix the problem? That, you smiling assassins, is another story entirely. I guess eventually a resolution will come to me. It will seep through the layers of my subconscious like the drips of mineral-rich water from limestone. Each drip will form a stalagmite on the floor of my cavernous brain until eventually it stands tall enough for me to take notice. Carved along the length of it will be my answer: so clear (and so frustratingly obvious) that I will marvel that I am so dense not to have seen it earlier. What a metaphor that is. Roll the dice again and we'll see what the odds are.

Tut tut. Why waste the time speculating anyway? We could discuss this until the sun burns out if we had the wherewithal. I think it wiser to have concrete plans - or at least a concrete opinion - before taking another step. Like the formation of that mental stalagmite, this could take time. I'm impatient, you doe-eyed reveller, so let us hope a perfect plan comes to me quick-smart. We only have the rest of our lives, and that is never enough time.

Spreading the ambiguity like butter tonight. HST would be singularly unimpressed: He knew better than most that this is the duty of a writer rather than a gift. A bread-and-butter task - not much fun at the time - that needs completing for the foundations to be laid. As He was wont to say: "Buy the ticket, take the ride." Who am I to argue with that? He would not pat me on the back and congratulate me on a job well done. Oh, no, no. That was not his style for starters, but more importantly He saw the bigger picture. More people see it also if you've done your job correctly. No one wants to hear us sing about tragedy.

Do you follow me? Can you see the light at the end of this narrow tunnel? Let's play the hand like we couldn't care less: I'm willing to hope the light isn't an oncoming train despite express examples from my past that it almost certainly is. But nothing is a sure bet. There is always room for the under-dog, and I've got a soft-spot for the down-and-outer. The unfancied often end up living fanciful lives, or so Hollywood would have me believe. Hot damn, I'm on a roll here!

This is days of pent up wordiness. Imagine, if you will, how my mind must have churned before I decided to do this daily. Such a waste of unintentionally good and unforgivably bad writing. Over time, though, you're bound to get it right at least once. Maybe this time...? Oh, you'd love for me to beg for the answer. If I was to hazard a guess, I'd say the Gods of writing are more fickle than most, but also more pragmatic. It is a contrary and unfair mix, which I imagine pleases them no end. Oh, where to now? You'd think for someone so apparently perceptive I'd have a pragmatic view of my own on all we've discussed recently. Alas, I don't navigate life easily, much as I'd love to.

I think we've probably all had enough now, don't you agree? When my mind gets into this state it's as though I'm in the fast-lane on the motorway, but driving in reverse. Crashing into thoughts, nose-to-tail, and cutting the remains from the wreckage is neither efficient or particularly smart. For a different perspective, come back later: I will probably have changed my mind on this. If I can't challenge my own opinions, who am I to challenge anyone elses'? So you see my point, ladies and gents. If it offends you, cover your eyes.

What's another word for desperate?