The Gap

It’s a long road
When you’re on your own
And it hurts when
They tear your dreams apart
And every new town
Just seems to bring you down
Trying to find peace of mind
Can break your heart
It’s a real war
Right outside your front door I tell ya
Out where they’ll kill ya
You could use a friend
Where the road is
That’s the place for me
Where I’m me in my own space
Where I’m free that’s the place
I wanna be
‘Cause the road is long yeah
Each step is only the beginning
No breaks just heartaches
Oh man is anybody winning
It’s a long road
And it’s hard as hell
Tell me what do you do
To survive
When they draw first blood
That’s just the start of it
Day and night you gotta fight
To keep alive
It’s a long road …

“It’s a Long Road” – Dan Hill

——

20:00. I’m empty. Really, really empty. PIM slammed the hell out of me today. Playing into Fernando’s constant reminder that we’re all closet alcoholics, I came home and kicked back a dram, neat, and cooked. I’ve been accused of being a basketcase when I cook, stressing too much (Type A personality, you know) over every little detail, and never having anything ready on time. Tonight, I was only cooking for myself, which in terms of quantity, translates to about 65 portions instead of the usual 130. As my veggies simmered, I went on a hunt for housemates, looking for someone to feed, only to find nary a hint of light peeping out from cracks, and nothing but pitch black darkness. Perhaps that’s what I need tonight: abyssal silence. Yet I know what I really need, after Fernando’s lecture. But it’s not really much of a possibility. If I ask, I’ll fall and lose, which, after further consideration, is what I’ll do anyway.

Peeling the Onion: Why do I like to cook? To feed people. Why do I like to feed people? To feel needed. Why do I need to feel needed? Because there’s a titanic gap between my self-ideal and self-esteem. There, that feels better.

Or not.

We read a nice, cheery piece about a highly successful man who killed himself in class this evening. Bartolome asked how many of us were familiar with suicide, either through family, friends, or people we’d worked with. About a quarter of the class raised their hand. I sat there wondering what kind of stories everyone had to live with every day. What kind of demons is everyone harboring? How many of my classmates have walked up to the casket of a friend to find an unnaturally serene, made-up husk of the person they once knew, dressed to the nines, with fifteen bullet holes in his chest? How fucking many? What the fuck do people here know about stories?

How do you fight existential angst? How the fuck can you even begin to fathom the human condition? Sure, the existence thereof makes us appreciate the joys of little things. The sun peeking out from high cirrus after a storm. The smell of wet grass drifting on the wind as I take a long drag on a smoke. The fundamental rightness of physical intimacy. The knowledge that I’m not alone…

How do I reconcile the pluses and minuses? Who the fuck can I drop the mask for, and how can I be sure they won’t push me away when they see me, like so many have? Am I loved for the conception of being, or for the real deal?

105 days left, dear reader. Live it alone, or go out in a goddamn blaze of glory? I’ve already made the call, this time without considering the input of fucking idiots who, though well intentioned, don’t have a fucking clue.

It’s on you.

“We get sick alone. We die alone.”
-F. Bartolome

And nothing but…

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older
Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long
And wouldn’t it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong

You know its gonna make it that much better
When we can say goodnight and stay together

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up
In the morning when the day is new
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through

Happy times together we’ve been spending
I wish that every kiss was never ending
Wouldn’t it be nice

Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true
Baby then there wouldn’t be a single thing we couldn’t do
We could be married
And then wed be happy

Wouldn’t it be nice

You know it seems the more we talk about it
It only makes it worse to live without it
But lets talk about it
Wouldn’t it be nice

“Wouldn’t It Be Nice” – Beach Boys

——

I should be in bed, recovering from the week’s worth of madness and back-to-back nights of company presentations, career fairs, shitty hors devours, bad champagne and threadbare suits.   Instead, I’m sitting in this rickety chair, hammering away at this rickety keyboard, wondering why this rickety blogger can’t bring itself to reply to the countless “where have you gone and what the hell has happened to you” emails that are collecting dust in various inboxes, nor to write the all-important, ass-kissing cover letters required for the numerous interviews I won’t get, for jobs I’m not really sure I want.

On the upside, classes this period have been excellent thus far. Granted, there haven’t been more than a handful of sessions for any subject, but I’m already a fan of both the content and the professors, especially “Negotiations Strategies” with Ayse Öncüler.

Last Friday, we discussed a few key ideas in negotiation, one of which was Degrees of Truth, of which there are varying iterations, all considered “the truth.”

Why wouldn’t everyone use the maximum degree, I wonder? This ties in with a topic we covered in PIM about espoused values (values which you proclaim to uphold) versus _______ values (values which you actually exercise in daily life). The value of “honesty” was brought up, and I’m sure many a student in class counted it among their espoused values, but probably don’t live it 75%, let alone 100%.

It’s really no surprise then, that life is lived and played like one big game, but it still makes me wonder. Sure, I’ve played the game, and I still do, to some degree, but as I get older, I see less and less point in obfuscation and misinformation. I’m bound to get some readers who are shaking their heads so hard at my perceived naivete that their vertebrae are in danger of snapping like kindling, but it’s their right to laugh.

Does this make me guilty of seeing the world in shades of black and white? Probably.

Is it wrong of me to try to keep some ideals alive in that lump of coal known as my soul? Probably.

alksjflakdsjf?

I have the saddest feeling
Deep inside
Don’t think that I will hear
From you tonight

(bridge 1)
Now the moon lights up
I know the stars will shine
But I can’t escape
The way I feel inside

(chorus)
Every shade of blue I see
When you’re away from me
Thinking about you Oh Oh
Thinking about you
Every shade of blue I cry
‘Til the colours all run dry
When I’m without you Oh Oh
When I’m without you

Alone in the darkness
I can dream of you
But always the daylight
Comes around too soon

(bridge 2)
And the night goes on
Feels like it never ends
I keep holding on
‘Til you come back again

(chorus)

(bridge 2)

(chorus ad lib) 

“Every Shade of Blue” – Banarama

——

I’ve got one foot in a rift in the space-time continuum, and the other in some strange alternate reality that my life has become.  You know what else I’ve got?  No idea what’s going on.  The endless zerg of company presentations and consulting applications has something to do with it, but so does the “WTF?!” aspect of the last couple of days.

Huh?

I thought I was lost before.  What the hell does that make me now?

Tesla

Aaaaand they’re off.  The first round of consulting applications came due at the stroke of midnight, and I haven’t seen anyone turn into a pumpkin yet.  My head’s still spinning from cover letters, CV edits and random lightning strikes.

The company presentation circus is rolling into town again this week, and I don’t have any non-wrinkled business attire to sport.  Oh well; that part of life can wait, for now.  In the meantime, it’s time to try my hand at that sleep thing before I get hit by another runaway meteor.

Kool Kids

What am I to you
Tell me darling true
To me you are the sea
Vast as you can be
And deep the shade of blue

When you’re feeling low
To whom else do you go
See I cry if you hurt
I’d give you my last shirt
Because I love you so

If my sky should fall
Would you even call
Opened up my heart
I never want to part
I’m giving you the ball

When I look in your eyes
I can feel the butterflies
I love you when you’re blue
Tell me darlin’ true
What am I to you

Yah well if my sky should fall
Would you even call
Opened up my heart
Never want to part
I’m giving you the ball

When I look in your eyes
I can feel the butterflies
Could you find a love in me
Could you carve me in a tree
Don’t fill my heart with lies

I will you love when you’re blue
Tell me darlin’ true
What am I to you
What am I to you
What am I to you

“What Am I To You” – Norah Jones

——

I lazed the day away, enjoying a late, languid lunch after an afternoon grocery trip on which I ended up buying yet another bottle of whisky. Good move, as I think it’ll be one of those nights. I spent the rest of the day playing games, watching the hours tick away. Life would be so much easier, according to Fernando, if no one played games and everyone called it like it is. Replace “you’re so smart,” with “you’re stunning.” Get rid of “let’s go out to dinner,” and substitute, “let’s get naked.” Abandon the, “You’re a great friend,” and call in the “I’m seeing someone else.” Ditch the “You’re so _____,” and just say, “I love you.”

—

Chateau Villecerf threw a gig this evening, in the northern part of their compound (that place is more like an estate, split into Upper and Lower houses nestled in the midst of French farmland). Unfortunately for us P4s, the P2s had the upper hand when it came to numbers, and the few faces I recognized were off drinking or dancing to the strangest beats, necessitating an early exit on my part. No worries though, as I’ve got my friends Dalwhinnie, Laphroaig and Johnny Walker to keep me company.

—

Ah, friends; what a fickle lot they are. Fear not, for I know I can always count on the aforementioned three and their brethren wherever I am in the world. Except for Saudi Arabia, of course. If I end up there, I’ll be drinking ethanol that I brew in a bathtub. Here’s to not working in Mecca. Is that sacrilegious? If so, sorry to all of the burqa-sporting folk out there. Salam Aleikum. Don’t worry it’s not you. I hate all people equally. I suppose that precludes me from ever being a true Rogerian.

—

“When you don’t meet people in the real world, it’s hard to keep the friendships going.”

In 111 days, probability says that I won’t see my INSEAD J’08 classmates ever again. Somewhere along this roller coaster of a year, I was asked, “What’s the point?” My answer was something along the lines of, “To enjoy the ride. For the good times. For happiness.” I’m not sure any of that holds water anymore.

What is the point?

The year is shaping up to be as clique-ish as middle school. Lo and behold, I’m not part of any of the clans, partly by choice and partly by reality. I’ve always been a straddler; never here nor there, flitting between the nerds, the cool kids, the rebels and everything in between, a smoke dangling between slender fingers, a glass clutched in scarred hands. All we want is a little contact, right? A bit of validation that none of us are alone in this world. A high-five, a hug, a cuddle, a kiss, a never ending night of rapture. That’s all we need, right?

No.

You’re on your own, kiddo. No one’s going to look out for #1 except yourself. If only, after all these years, I could listen to myself on that count.

Muggsy Bogues

OK what is it tonight?
Please just tell me what the hell is wrong,
Do you want to eat, do you want to sleep, do you want to drown?
Just settle down, settle down, settle down…
I’ll give you candy, give you diamonds, give you pills,

Give you anything you want, hundred dollar bills,
I’ll even let you watch the shows you want to see,
Just marry me, marry me, marry me…

I’m so sick of you tonight,
You never stay awake when I get home,
Is something wrong with me, something wrong with you?

I really wish I knew, wish I knew, wish I knew…
I give you candy, give you diamonds, give you pills,
I give you anything you want, hundred dollar bills,
I even let you watch the shows you want to see,
Because you married me, married me, married me…
Married me, married me, married me…

I was young I learned a game,
That love and happiness were the same,
And now I’m older and I don’t play,
I found out the hardest way,
I got wasted, she got mad, called me names and she called her dad,
He got crazy and I did too, wondering what I did to you.

I gave you candy, gave you diamonds, gave you pills,
I gave you anything you want, hundred dollar bills,
I even let you hear the songs I wanna sing
I’ll give you anything, anything, anything…
I’ll give you anything, anything, anything…
I’ll give you anything, anything, anything…
Anything…
Anything…
Anything…

“Anything Anything” – Dramarama

——

Bain & Co. packed the house in the largest amphi earlier this evening, followed by a shoulder-to-shoulder hosted bar event at the Fontainebleau Chateau. This was the first top-tier consulting firm to come to campus this week, if you don’t count Roland Berger. AT Kearney and Accenture are on for tomorrow night, and the biggest bad-ass of them all, McKinsey & Co., is slated for Friday night. It was a tad surreal, sipping champagne in a marble-pillared room decked out with more cherubic statues than you can shake a stick at, while trying to look comfortable in “business attire,” and schmooze at the same time. What would Napolean think about all these nutjobs standing in his hallway?
I haven’t seen so many MBAs running around in suits since, well, our P1/P2, when the previous intake were in the thick of their recruiting season. It’s amazing how behavior shifts in the context of a cocktail party cum recruiting event. Trying to get in a word edgewise with a consulting firm partner at one of these gigs is like trying to post up with Patrick Ewing, Shaq and Yao Ming running interference. Polite elbows get thrown, petite folk get edged out, and the loudest, most dandruff-laden types, who inevitably sport the most poorly cut suits you’ll ever see, usually end up monopolizing most of the airtime. I’m not complaining, I’m just “telling it like it is,” to quote the Bain presentation. See, I’m the perfect fit for that firm. Maybe I should put this on my CV, like a fellow INSEAD blogger has chosen to do. But he actually gets traffic.

There’s so much on my mind, and so many things to do, not the least of which the brick of reading for PIM tomorrow and it’s already past midnight. I should really get on that, and get in to bed. Better yet, I’ll do both at the same time. But before I forget, I’ve been asked to start a fan-club for myself. Step right up and sign on the dotted line. You can be the inaugural member.

Gloria

You don’t know a thing about me
Is there something you should know?
I can tell you what you want to hear
Let your inhibitions just go

No, you don’t know what you will give up
You don’t know what you want
It may take you years to find out
You don’t know what you need
It’s something that may never come to you

Trust is something that comes easy
When you’ve never been a victim
Lies and promises and words are said
It’s your decision to accept them

No, you don’t know what you will give up
You don’t know what you want
It may take you years to find out
You don’t know what you need
It’s something that may never come to you

“Disconnected” – Face to Face

This, and “Anything Anything” by Dramarama are probably two of my favorite songs in any genre. I first heard this song ages ago, in the pre-Internet days, and spent a good number of years looking for the title. It would’ve made a great background for my angst-filled teenage years.  Hell, it’d make a great soundtrack for my INSEAD year.

——

It’s settled. I like PIM, and am staying in the class, much to my discomfort.

Today, we took a self-assessed “Rogerian Attitudes Questionnaire” in which we had to describe the extent to which we possessed a list of traits, some positive, some negative on a scale of 1 to 5, with the high end signifying “very much so,” and the low “not at all.”

Some positively Rogerian traits/behaviors, with my self-scored ranking in parentheses included in the sample were: Caring (5), Patient (2), Compassionate (5), Good at Perceiving Others’ Feelings (2), Comfortable With Ambiguity (2). Some negatives: Judgmental (4), Spontaneous (4), Uncomfortable With My Own Emotions (5), and the zinger, Like Action Movies (4).

We were then asked to sum the 4’s and 5’s for both positives and negatives. My results were +:43, -:29. I think that makes me slightly Rogerian, but the extremes worry me a little. Though I haven’t mustered up the courage to speak in class yet, it’s kind of funny how honest and open I’m being with myself in the course.  I shrunk a little when Fernando busted out, “Many of you like to play closet psychologist…” Yup; guilty as charged. I think I have the answers for everyone else, but I can’t even solve my own problems. Go figure.

I gasped (thankfully, no one was close enough to hear) when he asked us to write down what we thought the risks of empathy were, from the point of view of the person feeling empathetic. Empathy, as defined by Fernando, is the ability to get in touch with not only the thoughts, but the feelings of another person. The ability to not only put yourself in their shoes, but in their heart as well.

I’ve thought a lot about this topic over the last few months, and have been trying to figure out where my penchant for empathy comes from, and how far back this somewhat nefarious trait goes.  The first, I’ve got a shaky handle on.  The latter, I won’t be able to peg, because I’ve already gone as far as memory serves.  This might sound like some self-tooting of the ol’ horn, but I know I’m not Mother Theresa, and I’ve never really viewed the behavior/trait/ability as a good thing.  Do I want to get rid of it?  Probably not, but I can’t say I don’t wonder what life would be like without it.  Easier, is my guess.

There are some who would disagree with the assertion that I’m empathetic.  Pathetic, maybe, but not empathetic.  And they’d be right, in a narrow sort of way.  How many times have I been blind to, or lied to myself about what someone else is feeling?  How many times has that come back to bite me on the ass?  I don’t think it’s an issue of empathy so much as self-awareness and transparency, two concepts that Rogers believed to be crucial to his idea of “healthy” person.

Well, fuck, we all know I’m the paragon of health, right?  Whiskey, smokes, burning the Citroen’s transmission on low-gear sprints through the forest late at night, sleep deprivation, and participating in the INSEAD MBA program.  All signs of a healthy blogger.

Tomorrow is the same day.  Just with a different suit.

Receive

I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see
and be what I want to be

When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more than I ought to drink
Because I brings me back you…

Lilac wine is sweet and heady,
like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady,
like my love
Listen to me…
I cannot see clearly
Isn’t that he coming to me nearly here?

Lilac wine is sweet and heady
where’s my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady,
where’s my love?

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isn’t that he, or am I just going crazy, dear?
Lilac Wine, I feel unready
for my love…

 

“Lilac Wine” – James Shelton

——

I’ve got a nasty little habit of hanging on to 99% of the receipts that end up in my pocket. It used to make sense when I was working and tracking my expenses, but this year, it has turned into a major nuisance, as the mounds of heat-sensitive paper are really starting to impede my ability to move around the bedroom.

Regardless of how useless these tiny slips of accounting have become due to my profligate INSEAD ways (hey, it’s all borrowed money anyway, right?), they do serve a purpose: to hit myself in the head and heart repeatedly with the sledgehammer of nostalgia. I’ve been accused of living in the past (and the future, but never the present, God forbid), and what better way to take a 8.27 second 100 meter sprint through the caverns of time than examining every little transaction from August 2007?

From the mundane, “Hey, I sure ate a lot of fish in the cafeteria during P1/P2,” to the shocking, “Dear lord, I drank a lot of beer in P3,” to the good times, and the bad, the cascade is relentless, burying me in an avalanche of tidbits, left gasping for breath.

 

Here’s one for the sandwich I bought at that stand in CDG Terminal 3 the day I landed, before picking up my little leased Citroen.

Here’s one from my first trip to Paris, driving around bewildered, dumfounded and awed by the history, like the tourist that I am, forever transiting from one locale to the next.

Here’s one from that weekend awash in champagne and crepes, breathing with effervescent happiness and twinkling eyes.

Ooh, here’s one from a visit to McDonald’s in August. I love that place more than I should.

Here’s one from that amazing dinner, honoring a cleanly lost bet with glasses of out-of-place mojitos, after an afternoon spent wandering back alleys filled with the clanking din of hammers on silver, where foreign skin is nary seen.

Oops, here’s one from Freddy’s Bar for a box of overpriced cigarettes. Off to the other stack to join your brothers and sisters you go.

Here’s the UPS tracking tag for a gift. I love gifts, though only on the giving end, never the receiving. Correction; what I love the fleeting moment of happiness, the toothy smile, the imperceptible jump in the seat of someone opening a present. That’s why I give. Fuck the “stuff.”

Ah, here we go. Pizza Pazza. This one makes me chuckle. I’d bet some serious money that if I had a receipt for every visit to this fine Italian establishment, one of the line items would always be the same.

Here’s one from that day spent racing to Paris, trying to find something to wear for the Winter Ball. I should’ve stayed in bed; I shouldn’t have gone; I should’ve been struck with the flu or dengue fever or cholera or a falling decision tree.

Here’s the stub from a flight home to days spent in grey, awaiting the return to hope, only to find more grey.

 

Another will join it soon, if nothing works out. Even receipts fade, eventually.

Desperately Seeking Mangrove

Which of the bold face lies will we use?
I hope that you’re happy
You really deserve it
This will be best for us both in the end

But your taste still lingers on my lips
Like I just placed them upon yours
And I starve
I starve for you
But this new diet’s liquid
And dulling to the senses
And it’s crude
But it will do

Which of the standard lines will we use?
I’ve been meaning to call you
I’ve just been so busy
We’ll catch up soon
Lets make it a point to

But your taste still lingers on my lips
Like I just placed them upon yours
And I starve
I starve for you
But this new diet’s liquid
And dulling to the senses
And it’s crude
But it will do

“Hope You’re Happy” – Dashboard Confessional

——

I attended the first session of “Psychological Issues in Management” (PIM) today, taught by the infamous Fernando Bartholome. It’s an interesting class so far. I’ll post on this when I have more data, but I didn’t find it shocking or offensive as many others in the classroom did, if the looks on their faces were anything to go by. For me, it was incredibly draining more than anything. I sat there, coiled and tense, waiting to be cold-called and flip on the flight-or-fight instinct, with an inclination toward the latter. Maybe it was just the jam-packed amphi and my closet claustrophobia kicking in. Maybe it was the way some of Fernando’s comments hit home, hard. Maybe I’m just imagining things and should stop listening to the little green men.

“If you know what this class is about, why are you taking it,” I was asked.

“I dunno; to challenge myself, to spite myself, to push myself,” I replied.

Who knows why I do the things I do? I sure as hell don’t. An impartial third party thinks I take selfless actions to further my path to sainthood whilst ignoring my Rogerian conception of “self.” Well, if that’s the case, then once my stigmata arrive from Amazon.com, I’ll be fit for canonization.

There are various parties going down tonight: P1/P2 section reunion deals, house gigs, get-togethers, and whatnot. I didn’t receive an invitation to any of them. Now let’s just get this straight: I do not crash parties. That’s just not my thing. If I haven’t made it to a mailing list and I receive a double, triple forwarded email with details, I just won’t go. Sure, this is INSEAD, and I constantly hear, “everyone crashes, who cares? Don’t be stupid,” but I won’t do it. Call it principle. Call it idiocy. Call it being antisocial. Call it what you will. I’m not whining about the state of affairs. It is what it is. I could network better. I could care more.

I’m tired, hungry, spent, and not really sure what’s coursing through me right now, though in an attempt to be Rogerian, I’m trying hard not to benchmark whatever it is against anything/anyone else, and am stewing in the deserted West Wing typing this by the harsh, clean glow of a lonely fluorescent tube.

The job hunt is already starting to overwhelm me. Thirty-nine messages were waiting in Outlook when I booted up this morning, a good two-thirds of which had something to do with employment. There seems to be a career services event workshop of some sort happening every night, and though I know from experience that I won’t extract much value out of them, I feel guilty if I don’t attend each and every one. There are something like six presentations that I want to go to next week, and the consulting firms have all sent out panic-mongering emails offering slots in limited-availability, “non evaluative information sessions,” asking us to reply ASAP and indicate our office geography of choice. As much as I hate to curse in a public forum, and as much as my excessive use of language bugs one particular reader, there’s no more appropriate turn of words here than a good ol’ “Fuck me.”

 

Adage

Now I know,
That I can’t make you stay.
But where’s your heart?
But where’s your heart?
But where’s your,

And I know.
There’s nothing I can say.
To change that part.
To change that part.
To change.

So many,
Bright lights they cast a shadow,
But can I speak?
Well is it hard understanding,
I’m incomplete?
A life that’s so demanding,
I get so weak.
A love that’s so demanding,
I can’t speak.

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Tell me if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

Can you see?
My eyes are shining bright,
‘Cause I’m out here, on the other side,
Of a jet black hotel mirror,
And I’m so weak.
Is it hard understanding?
I’m incomplete.
A love that’s so demanding,
I get weak.

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Tell me if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Tell me if you stay I’ll be forgiven,

Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

These bright lights have always blinded me.
These bright lights have always blinded me.

I say.

I see you lying next to me,
With words I thought I’d never speak,
Awake, and unafraid.
Asleep, or dead.

‘Cause I see you lying next to me,
With words I thought I’d never speak,
Awake, and unafraid.
Asleep, or dead.

‘Cause I see you lying next to me,
With words I thought I’d never speak,
Awake, and unafraid.
Asleep, or dead.

‘Cause I see you lying next to me,
With words I thought I’d never speak,
Awake, and unafraid.

Asleep, or dead…

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Tell me if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Honey if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

I am not afraid to keep on living,
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Honey if you stay I’ll be forgiven,
Nothing you can say can stop me going home.

“Famous Last Words” – My Chemical Romance

——

Are you one of those people who always wonder how you can get the old aphorisms to apply to your life?

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”

“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”

“Out of sight, out of mind.”

I am.

Yet none of them ever work. All that seems to bring me forward is putting one foot in front of the other. One monotonous, trudging step at a time.

Ever have one of those nights when nothing goes right, and when you turn to the people you thought you could count on, you find only facades in their stead?

T-minus 36 hours until P4. This break has been nothing like I thought it would be. My mind has been on a giant roller coaster since Monday, and I have no idea what tomorrow is going to bring, let alone tomorrow-and-a-half. Absolutely no idea. Yet I s’pose I’m happier, at this particular moment in the space-time continuum. I’m thinking less, and that’s good. But I wonder…

Back to the Old Way, I suppose. Back to the perfectly correlated substitutes. Back to the Walk. Back to The Path.

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

Smile!