Wake up to a quiet house, the low electric hum of the bedside fan barely audible. Amble out to the kitchen to put the kettle on and brew the morning coffee while checking my phone for messages. One cup, one sugar, a bit of cream; pour the coffee into the French press, stir 100 times with a plastic spoon, press, and pour. Overstep the child gate meant to keep the dogs out of the office, set the coffee down at the desk, sit down in the swivel chair, and boot up the computer. So it has been, and so it will be, for the foreseeable future.
A symphony of grand expectation clashing violently with reality. I’m tired of doing X and continuing to do X. I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re both predictable in our inability to change. To grow. To live our lives. So curiously maddening that it makes me want to claw my eyes from their sockets and rip the skin from my bones.
The early morning haze, lifting gradually from the senses, light returning slowly to sight, and the body regaining feeling as if, for the first time, existing. It’s slow, at first; everything’s foggy. Then, as though turning a volume knob slowly to it’s maximum setting, noise returns to the otherwise silent world.
Nobody becomes mediocre on purpose – it just kind of happens, gradually over time, through a series of compromises and just good enoughs until, eventually, they’re no longer actively attempting to be even remotely good at something but rather just not bad. And then, even at that point, being not bad isn’t exactly being good, either.
I remember reading somewhere that a person can drown in less than 6 inches of water. Of course, now that Google exists, I can do more than rely on my faulty memory, and actually look up this fact. Young children can drown in less than 2 inches of water. Oh, well, that’s even scarier than the number that I remember.
Petrichor lingers in the air long after the rain has ceased, the clouds have parted, and the thunderous applause has calmed. The opening line of Spring being accompanied by the sweet smell of Honeysuckle. The unique aroma that accompanies old books in the forgotten wing of the Public Library as you navigate your way through the card catalog to find that one book you’ll need to finish your report for third period English.