Bruised Fruit

Oh, Duckie, how a year can bruise you.

Sometimes I wonder where you are in the world, if you're listening to the same song as I or reading a book, sipping too-strong coffee and trying not to make eyes at the hot barista you have no intention of actually speaking to. I know you. I know your quirks. And I miss them all the time. I picture you tired from the ole four to one, cramming your way into your little apartment with your bag of take away and backpack full of crap, plopping down to watch that old movie you can't seem to give up on. Maybe you're texting that outdoorsy catch you caught a month back, or maybe you're just eating in silence thinking about nothing at all. Dirty dishes in the sink. Dirty sheets, dirty laundry. It's all gone so away and too much effort now to pluck the nerve for cleaning. I know, Duckie, I know. And the sounds of the city tink loud around you, whispers in the chilly air of funner times below but you don't want them. You want your dirty room and the comfort of the bed that smells like you and sleep to heal the hurts of the shift that ran too long tonight. I know how it all goes. I can see you pressing your palms to your face, shoving your head into the pillow as if it could steal the ache that's forming behind your brow. It seems there's always a headache close by these days, doesn't it? I get them too, behind the eye, every second Sunday. Yessiree.

I've accomplished so much in a year and yet I feel I've done nothing. Nothing but wait for the time to change the current, to begin again with a blank slate and a new purpose and drive. Dive, headfirst into the deep end. No floaties this time, dear Duck. No water wings to keep my head above the rush. And yet, I'm standing still. Going nowhere. Static. C'est fou!

They say it's good to have a routine, a pattern that keeps you accountable, on track, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera... Well, perhaps that's true but it also means the monotony of my days are a Groundhog kind of laborious slog that are eking away all my sense of adventure and play. All my wildest fantasies are jailed behind my schedule - wake up, work out, eat, write, eat, work, eat, work out, eat, read, sleep, repeat.

Duckie, where has fun gone?

I suppose I'm not the only sad-sack-Mando ever to contemplate the state of their existence or the proverbial "How did I get here?" - but I had plans and then plans had me - straight for a ride and on till morning. Or something like that and now I'm still here. Still grinding away with nothing to show for it but this little blog and a website of a portfolio otherwise unseen by public eyes. These are the days we will come to be grateful for, right? Because if not, then what if I'm just wasting my days? It's not mere rejection, not the fear of getting it wrong, but larger than that by double and half.

Duckie, if only you were here some of the time, all of the time. I know your wings fly far but sometimes they take you too-away and it's just little ole me in this vast conundrum without a sounding-board, without my friend, my Duck. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you're doing something decent and cheeky, as always.

Another letter to the ether.

Another inking to the fray.

A bit of scratch to keep the snarks and gargoyles at bay.

I've been thinking less of my heroes of late, perhaps I've been distracted and should re-visit some older interests, some lost pages in my vaulted library. I know that's what you'd tell me to do: get inspired, get busy. You always did know just what to say to pull me up outta a slump.

Anyway, it's almost eight which means I have to eat - or work - or work out - or pull hairs out one by one.

I'll keep you posted. For now, this bruised fruit is signing off.

Chin chin and chin up, m'duck.

I loveth thee,

Boom Boom