Hangover Saturdays: Passion versus Productivity

Maybe it was the beauty the present morning was echoing through your senses that made you want to tie up that piece of severed rope you’d left on the kitchen floor weeks, months, years ago but never managed to pick up and throw in the garbage. It would tug at your mind to remind you to throw it away, given it’s lack of purpose, but something always came up ; probably since it never really bothered you when it came down to it, you just said fuck it and acted as if it was a subconscious thing that made you walk around it as opposed to on top of it every time you walked through the kitchen. But that morning with the ocean’s eyes sparkling and the sun’s rays smiling, with the tree’s winds glimmering and the bird’s essence twittering, you felt the need to fix it rather than simply throw it away and spend a few extra dollars on another one.

But maybe it was the little happy things that had somehow stacked up over the last couple of days that had completely blocked the blinding penetration of the past weeks of sweaty insecurity and civic lust, casting a shadow through your office window that graced you with the shade and the comfort that you hadn’t realized you’d been seeking so you could gather your thoughts. You finally gathered them in your newfound shadows and, upon weaving emotion through the seams of the rough fabric of thought, glided with your soaring spirit. Upon entering such a mystic state of euphoria, you forgot to remind yourself not to step on that severed rope in the kitchen. You stared down at it under your foot and smiled.

However, there’s always that chance that nothing in life is so simple or metaphysical. It could very well just have been the practicalities of a hangover: your mind, still breaking down the last of the ethanol molecules, created an extra jolt of that genuine emotion spawned from the act of having a good time or, simply put, drinking alcohol.  Maybe it truly  was a good time, because the last time you’d opened your eyes with such a sense of peace was thousands of kilometers away, in a memory you can only recognize as what outer space is to you now. As you lie in bed, that extra surge of emotion avalanches the snowed-over mountain of post-brain-cell-genocide thought back to the rope on the floor, and you rise out of bed to go tie it.

Despite the reason, you fixed that rope and it lays on your desk now, hanging out like you were for so many years. You don’t know what it’ll be good for– you don’t really even care, you’re just glad you finally took care of it. As you sat and stared at your productivity, you had a sudden urge to go partake in a passion of yours of which you’d deprived yourself as of late, so you did.


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Another twenty some odd young adult who believes he sees things from a unique perspective. Here be my poetry & prose, short stories, favored school papers, rantings, and "blogs." Comment, critique, and profit.


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