I don't have much down time, and the real bitch of it is that when I do have down time I simply can't go to the places I would most love to visit. Fuck visit; if I could, I'd just move there in a state of very early and semi-permanent retirement.
Rivendell. Wonderland. Heorot. The Hundred Acre Woods. (And yes, my first degree had a concentration in British Lit, of which I am not ashamed, though I remain unemployable. Sigh.)
Today the rain is gone, though the wind is high, buffeting the house and causing my little ten pound ball of fur and love to crawl as close to his dad as possible to hide from the noise. For all his attitude, he's quite timid when shite goes down.
So yesterday I asked a question, but received no responses. Not surprising or unexpected, as I have no clue how many of you have reason to read this, and that you don't know me. But I also promised a response of my own, today. So here it is . . .
I am here because I am outside the lines. This is not a conscious effort on my part; it is just where I have always found myself, and in many different ways. It is the only consistent thing about me. Sometimes the margins, the world outside the lines, is lonely or difficult, as I imagine any world is. But it is also the place where all the color lives unconstrained, brilliant and vibrant. I think the colors look that way out here because, breaking free of the lines around them, they find they may glow in breathtaking new ways. I surfed the site and thought a while before coming on, for no other reason than wanting to see how many others here find themselves on the edges like I do. On the surface, one might think that everyone here does, but the surface never reveals: it only conceals. No matter; I was won over. And now, here I sit, filling up an empty space, hopefully in a colorful way.
So there it is, the short version at any rate. Drop me a message if you'd care to know more, or even better, if you'd care to talk about what the edges look like in your world.
Till tomorrow, then. For now I need a drink to deal with this hangover. Fucking Jameson . . .