Please Do Not Spindle or Mutilate

Apologies for bringing the crowd down. Not the festive mood one might hope for 'round these parts. Clearly.

But I am worried. This is faux-day 1 (I am still here, leave tomorrow for There) and I already broke into tears, felt like I was about to shatter into a million pieces, fervently wished I could disappear into the ether, and literally held onto my head to make sure it did not truly fly off.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I know everyone thinks I am nuts, over-exaggerating, jumping to conclusions and making my own life difficult. Perhaps this is true, but riddle me this: How many of them are still at the office trading e-mails with various partners and outside co-counsel and turning drafts of a motion?

If a big fat goose egg comes to mind, that is just about right.

Not begrudging that they are out and about, because really, no one should be here. I would not want that for anyone. However, I have to feel there is at least a tiny shard of truth amongst the entropy created by my hysteria. It really does suck. I am not making it up.

The primal scream I posted here earlier was an exact stenographic replay of something I speoke out loud in the office. Oh, but see, "spoke" is not the right word. "Cried out" doesn't quite cover it. "Screamed" may be a little much, but "yelled" is really just about right. My assistant sits on the other side of our floor, and shortly after my vociferous angst, I get an e-mail from her asking if I was okay with four question marks after the query. This is not standard operating procedure for her - she and I go days without interacting (not because we don't get along, but she just doesn't sit near me and I am pretty self sufficient). So yeah, generally not a good sign when (1) you openly declare that you "hate your fucking life" (2) you do so in such a way that everyone in a 60 foot radius can hear, (3) you are at work surrounded by co-workers..... and (4) when you find out that all of the co-workers could hear you yell, you don't care. At all.

In this life, everyone walks around with the weight of a crumpled dream in their pocket. Some are more tattered and worn than others. They have been tucked away longer. It is imperative to retrieve your dream from its linty storehouse before it becomes so faded, so spindled and mutilated, that it is rendered unrecognizable.

I hold my dreams in the palm of my hand. Nervously running them throough my sweaty fingers - over and over and over. Worrying the edges, rubbing off the shine. Keeping them resident in the dark crevices of my pocket. Unexposed. Unrealized.

They do me no good there. The darkness wears away at them, perhaps more insidiously than the light. If I try, I may lose them in a shower of failure. But rendered crevasse dwelling and mole-like, they die slowly anyway. Slipping away.

I know what my dream is. I know what makes me feel better. I may be a fool for beginning to believe that I can do it, that it is the only answer, to making my life well-lived. But I am a bigger fool for doing nothing about it.

Let's see if I can emerge from 5 weeks in self-destruct mode in one piece, in order to make good and follow up on that dream.