Not a Year

 Hello. It hasn't quite been a year since my last post. A lot of nothing has come between, I think. Plenty of time to ... what?

 That's not to say I haven't been busy. I keep busy the way many Good Americans keep busy: working, doing family stuff, working some more. I'm no workaholic, mind you -- I believe firmly in maintaining a balance with life. It's just that life is a somewhat nebulous word for me.

 Life slips away a bit at a time, with every breath, every drink from the glass, every creaking step through this old house. As a pulsing organic unit with limited interactions with other pulsing organic units, it's perhaps easy to see the slip happen in the negative spaces I occupy. Another day like a drop of water into the ocean, and already I'm feeling the tiredness creeping on the edge of my eyes, soon to start beading another drop on the rim of my cup.

 It's not as meditative as it might sound. The bustle of children laughing, screaming, bickering keeps my nerve up even when I'm in a state of otherwise thoughtless existence. There are days here and there where I am alone in the house, and the quiet is almost eerie. On those days I might sit on the couch, trying to think about anything at all but ultimately stuck thinking about thinking, as I am now, coming to no enlightenment. I ask myself what it is to be alive, or what should I be doing instead of nothing, or what do other people do with their time. Always the same absence of answers in silence.

 Maybe I'd be depressed if I were anything at all, but I'm not, really, I'm not.