Saturday, November 26, 2005


These are the days inbetween. The space between the full stop and the initial capital of the next sentence. The silence inbetween computer keyboard symphonies. thisiswhatinspirationsoundslike.




There are so many things I should be doing. Writing book reviews promised to magazines. Pounding the pavement that little bit harder in the hope that it might relent and exhale viable employment from its cool, concrete depths. Running solitary marathons on treadmills that take me nowhere, as I chase the hollow satisfaction of fitness, brought about by manufactured sweat.

Then there are all the things I could be doing. Taking up an invitation to visit a friend in Caracas. Making faint, shifting footprints in white sand beaches. Trying out broken Spanish, overdosing on empanadas. Or I could build walls of books and cement the cracks with notes. Surrounded by stories, in a structure fortified by names and knowledge, I could write a book.

But I don't do these things. Any of them. Trapped inbetween, I tread water, jog on the spot.

2005 is nearly over, in retail we are gearing up for the senseless frenzy that comes before the year's death rattle. Now is not the time to begin new projects. These are wasted months, more about surviving than thriving. Helping flustered last-minute shoppers find presents nobody needs, ignoring the absurdity of anthems about snow and open fires that are piped through the shopping centre while outside, the heat melts my car dashboard.

I wait, inbetween this year and the next, inbetween school and the rest of my life. I hold my breath.

Nothing can begin now, not yet.