A Flashing Yellow Light

If you were to ask me what I really do, I wouldn’t know what to answer, except that it appears to be very little. I write decently, and say some decent things, but I’m probably at my best when I’m not writing, and even better when I’m not saying anything at all. Sometimes I think that if I were to remain silent long enough, the meaning of my lifetime of written speech would finally become clear — to myself, not least of all. Instead, I write about silence, and what I write is my own little noise. Or I write about peace, and it ends up being my own little disturbance. So what is it I really do? Why does every day feel like an adventure? And why is it that the best I’m able to do, at least at present, is wonder aloud what it is I really do? The cursor flashes like a yellow light. I drive on through. Maybe I should walk — around the world.

[ 2075 ]