This week was bad. Not the worst on record. Just more.
I want less.
I often imagine what it was like to live like Henry David Thoreau. I'd miss antibiotics and safe food, but probably not much else. There are too many damn distractions in today's world. Some in Thoreau's world as well, but he mastered putting them in their place. And when he saw injustices, he did not ignore them. Thoreau saw things. The reason we know this is that he wrote about what he saw. But he had to be out there, experiencing life before he would write. Same could be said for Samuel Clemens, Jack London or John Steinbeck. I just always felt more of an affinity for the quiet Thoreau.
Retirement is a ways off. I dream of a rustic place on a few acres. Maybe a pond I could walk to.
I tell myself that I could focus on writing without all these distractions. When I'm not working, I can focus more on living. Perhaps.
But it's just as likely I'll sit in my living room, and binge-watch some tripe until I get hauled-off the old folks dump.
I really don't care. I could do this forever, just like Sisyphus. With the same results.
And there's always more tomorrow.