I came into this year with a feeling of urgency, with a need to be, as I felt it, proactive about love and craft. I would change my daily patterns and alter my life course. I would dredge up love and write madly, if only to force my muse to stay by me.

Three weeks into the new year, and I am already tired and retreating to the patterns of passivity that have governed much of my life. I don’t know why I do not see the river of time and life that passes by me each day, and in the fleeing of the current feel fire and feist. I protect the illusion that there is always tomorrow.

And waste precious moments of now sitting on a couch, watching other men play basketball, or act out a fantastic piece of theater. My mind knows what is happening, and it consents.

And the muses continue to enjoy their winter slumber.

God grant me the courage and the hunger to actually try to live before it is too late.