On January 7, 2021 I retired from my career. I had plans to settle into the life of a reclusive, lonely poet, and maybe start writing that novel and some assorted stories that have been haunting me for many years. So, I cleaned up my office, created a workspace.
And…nothing. Some words hit the page but they were, so, bland.
Three months into this I was ready to give it up. Maybe the dream of being a writer was enough to keep me alive for all these years. Maybe tomorrow…? Maybe next week…? Maybe next year…? Maybe when I retire. But what then?
Retirement has been great. Pensions, and other assorted income makes for a stress free lifestyle. With the pandemic and quarantines all I really have is time. Time to write.
And…nothing. Why? I used to write a lot. I used to have these words. But for the last three months nothing really came forward.
I should state that I write from deep down in my soul. Hypnagogic, I believe they call it. It usually manifests itself right when my subconscious is about to take over when I am falling asleep. I drag myself out of bed and to the desk. And I write. But not lately. I really don't understand why.
I have been rather pensive and have been looking back over my long working career. 50 years of work. I was smart. I worked hard. I accomplished things. I made money, paid taxes, raised a family, created a pension for my later years. But what bothers me? I cannot help but look at all the mistakes I made in the 50 years when I was employed. Why? I was successful, mostly. I was gainfully employed most of my adult life. It brought me to where I am today - a pensioner.
But looking back I only see the mistakes I made. Is that nature's way of telling me to take control of my decisions; take control of my life. Don't make the same mistakes. Be good. Do well. Make the correct choices. I just have a hard time following the signposts in life.
Maybe I should rename this blog. Call it the procrastinator's diary or something. I will think about it and maybe do something next week. Stay tuned.
DN.
