In yesterday's blog entry I asked: "Why do I think anyone else is 'truthfully' interested in reading such drivel?" My understanding of the word 'drivel' is but one of several dictionary definitions, this one being: "childish, silly, or meaningless talk or thinking; nonsense; twaddle."
What I had written was indeed "childish nonsense." It skirted the edge of truth, a truth that wishes not to be easily revealed.
I am not afraid of making this upcoming geographical move. No. On the contrary, I am looking forward to it. Can't wait for all the preliminaries to be over.
It is the plethora of panic-producing tiny minor details that threatens to suffocate me. Again and again. Day in and day out.
Especially my seemingly impossible fumbling attempts to inform other people of my move and to interest them in buying some of my possessions.
Or even my wishful-thinking-like desire to announce (using some effortless ESP) that anyone who wants them can have these things without charge, absolutely free, if only they will come to me and carry them away. ALL of them, just get them the hell out of my sight and out of my mind.
There is such overwhelming difficulty in making decisions. Should I pack this? Should I discard this? How about that? What about this?
Decisions, decisions . . .
And time is running out . . .
Unresolved decisions . . .
Poppycock. Delusional drivel.
What will be, will be.
Sometime during the evening of Sunday March 22, 2010 all this will be behind me. Florida will be in the past; all of its years will become a mere set of fading memories.
The exit door will have been used then happily closed.
But . . .
A new window offer ups a new and panoramic view.
What, then, is there to fear?