I spend a lot of time wondering. And without an attention span it’s no easy task taking a thought to its exponential end. But I try. And convince myself I have when I haven’t. Faking it is in my blood. Not by intention. It’s a survival mechanism.
I’ve pondered away at least half my life (so far.) The work that needs to get done, does. But around and through it I daydream and fantasize. I project. And whatever bubble I’m in at a given time is the construct designed to keep me in a safe space.
If I’m pulled from my self-absorption, it gets awkward. When it’s not about me, I just nod. I’m an adult with a body of work to be proud of. If I’m not immersed, reading from my own script, I’m lost. Sometimes I makes bicycles. I always make believe.
All This By Hand
