deep breaths

So life has been passing me by lately... well... up until now. The blogs have lessened... the picture uploads have all but stopped... and I was continuing on a path of ill-conceived notions about what I was capable of.

I'm tired. I'm just tired.

Long gone are the days of full time job during the day, part time carpentry at night. I started my downhill decent about a month ago and now I am reaching out into the darkness for power bars of truth about where I am in this process.

Where I am.

Where I am is a very fluid concept right now. Last Thursday, I was on my way to nowhere in a hurry. I'm laying on the floor in my bedroom, red pen in hand... two sets of drawings from work sprawled across the cork. I returned downstairs to answer a late night doorbell ring.

Who's there, you ask?

It was Paul the gardener. Having reunited with Paul after the hedge-trimming incident a few months back, Paul recently aided me in reclaiming my overgrown property line from my neighbor and thus he stopped by to receive payment for a job well done.

Paul has no concept of time, as evidenced from his late night visits. (Including a midnight lawn raking scenario in early summer) But nevertheless, he arrived with his rottweiler, Sheeba. I stood there, talking to Paul and eyeballing a noticeably irritable Sheeba and it was then that I realized I wasn't as motionless as I felt. Things were happening. People and places were evolving around me and ..... and....that was okay.

Its just different when I'm not the puppet master... the master builder... the contractor... the architect... the visionary. It's okay sometime to just be the neighbor.

I feel like I'm rambling, yet the retelling of this sequence of events is seemingly therapeutic.... so the question comes to mind.... who am I really writing for?

You or me?