Last night I said some things in a manner and voice that, quite honestly, were not like my own. My blatherings and firm tone were the result of a Perfect Storm from the past week: stress from a rather large research paper due in two weeks; an onslaught of projects popping up at work; cocky confidence from a bottle of Budweiser and a shot; feeling more sensitive than usual about my personal relationships; and a slightly and silently bruised – but heal-able – heart.
And so I talked and spouted and sounded off. And in the night light, my words appeared so carefully chosen, so scripted, so honest, so effective.
But in the harsh sunshine and blue skies of this picture perfect April Saturday, I see now they were all wrong. The delivery, the premise, the language, the tone, the abrupt exit at the conclusion of my deeply pathetic manifesto.
And today, I feel terrible. Just awful.
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
– from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot
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