I should be writing. Let me rephrase; I should be writing Marchers. It is an interesting thing about many would-be writers, which I describe myself as, that they seem to find an awfully lot to things to do, get into or otherwise distract themselves with when they should be writing.
I don’t even really know why I am writing this. I recall a quote I once read from a movie called The More the Merrier:
Mr. Dingle: Do you keep a diary journal/blog, Miss Milligan Mr. Sunwolfe?
Miss Milligan: (As she’s writing her latest entry) No, of course I don’t! (Pause) Out of curiosity, why do you ask?
Mr. Dingle: There are two kinds of people—those who don’t do what they want to do, so they write down in a diary journal/blog about what they haven’t done: and those who are too busy to write about it because they’re out doing it.
The point is too sharp not to be taken, so I will not attempt to reflect directly upon it, but I’d like to suggest additional dialogue.
Mr. Dingle: Do you have many goals, Mr. Sunwolfe?
Mr. Sunwolfe: (As he prepares to delete his Facebook account) A few; not many. (Pause) Out of curiosity, why to you ask?
Mr. Dingle: There are two kinds of people—those who blame others for pressing their desires upon them and for the frustration at accomplishing so little of their own ambitions as a result; and then there are those who allow no one’s desires to stand in the way of accomplishment blaming no one but themselves for failure.
I had hoped that this summer, particularly, this July would prove a turning point in my life—finally. I seemed to have all the pieces in place, strategies laid out, plans solidly made and indeed I truly believed such preparations would safe guard my success. I am disheartened and ashamed to admit defeat and to once again find myself writing on this same well worn theme. I wonder if I return to such familiar ground simply out of force of habit.
Family health, my health, pets, DO mandates, family needs were outside obligations that played a part in my failure. I must embrace the very real fact that I, and I alone, bear the brunt of blame for my failure. Inwardly, I admit to being easy distracted and self-delusional concerning my time and capabilities. I added to my plate voluntary obligations which I knew to be conflicting to my purpose: HOL, pipe band, reading, and purposeless writing. When the externals came, worry for the house, friends gone silent, bills due, car and computer break downs, etc., etc. they were too much. All this might have been bearable, as solid rock against the pounding surf, had it not been for my curse—the “thorn in the flesh,” the obsession, the addiction I cannot control—which is a canker and whose nature it is to rot such steadfast virtues as discipline and integrity. That and my depression at growing old having run out of time and wasted my life.
I have called upon God for aid, but there seems to be some disconnect and, though He may save me from the eternal consequences of my narcissistic nature, He has decided against rescuing me from myself. I understand this to be part of His ongoing minding of my life. Not the curse but as a response to my poor choices. Some roads, once taken, do not allow for a turn about. So be it.
So what next? Bumble on, a living metaphor for insanity as I try to accomplish yet again the same goals, under the same circumstances expecting different results? I think I am most assuredly, “…a coward, lily-livered and lack galled…else I would have…” long since accomplished my heart’s desire and be enjoying a more satisfying life.
I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know, sadly I don’t know. I do know, however, the dog needs a bath, the lawn need mowing and that this missive is nothing but a self-imposed distraction from the job at hand. That I know.
Originally posted in the now deleted “Marchers of Khaldenthea” blog and The Salamander’s Quill 1.0