Summer Time

It is summer.  Summer is typified by laziness, excess, vacations and a time for relaxation.  I have many things that I do during the summer, although "Do" implies some sort of meaning or purpose to these actions.  Really, what I mean is they fill my time until something better comes along.  As my chronological meter racks up the counters, I am beginning to find that these moment holders are less and less satisfying.  Certainly they are useful for some minor recreation, but to waste hours and hours on them eats at the portion of my being that longs to create.  I needs must find something productive that entertains.

It is within this time that I also read.  I read quite frequently, but there are times when I experience a piece which is different.  It is more than what I understand as writing.  For me the experience isn't like reading, it is being let into a persons very existence.  Their ability to communicate dwarfs mine own in such a profound way as to be beyond compare.  But compare I do, and I'm filled with malaise.  That there is a being in the world who possesses creative power on a plane that I cannot fathom has the power to disconnect me from the fields I do inhabit.

But in juxtaposition there are these empty chronological calories.  I consume them and am bloated with them, but they do not fill me with meaning or substance.  I desire more meaty means of defining myself and want no more of this black sweetness which I have inundated myself with.  Despite my indolence, I want to strive onward to slimming my literary figure to a razor sharpness.  I will hone my wit and strengthen the temper of my metaphor until I am at least satisfied that I will suit my seat nicely, and not be forced to squeeze into a niche to small for me.