Dead Zone

I am lost in a dead zone. There are no thoughts, no points of view. I feel frozen in time and space, incapable of thought or motion. Something is still beeping on a machine, faint blips of hope, that the next minute would bring with it a burst of energy, action, inspiration. But that’s all it is; just a machine registering faint blips. I am staring at my computer screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard, eyes focused on the television.

Martin Bashir’s interview of Michael Jackson is being telecast yet again. I am watching with immense sadness because Michael Jackson has always left me sad. Life somehow conspired to rearrange his circuitry to a point where he became unrecognizable to me as someone I could stereotype or judge or assign to a special box on a shelf in my mind. His talent was astonishing but everything else about his life and his untimely death leaves me despondent.

That’s just a passing thought. The news registers, however tangentially.

There’s also a creeping note of frustration at my inaction, my boredom, my inability to make every minute count. Michael Jackson was probably trying to fill a crater that was gouged into his soul at a very early age; he was trying to recreate an unlived childhood perhaps. What am I trying to do? I have led a charmed life, surrounded by loved ones…but something is missing…as though life is one gigantic jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece.

I try things with eagerness, hoping to complete the picture but nothing fits and I stand around, stunned and rooted, with flailing arms until even the flailing falls into a pattern and takes on mechanical precision. Precision gives way to chaos and confusion and confusion dovetails into precision with unfailing tenacity. I resent both ends of the spectrum and so I trap myself in the middle seeking comfort in stagnation.

If there is a prescription for this condition I want it. I want to be excited about what I do every day. I want my work to be meaningful even as the smug shrink within whispers, “Define meaningful”.

These thoughts are not worth compiling, not worth mentioning. This may be the reason why I haven’t written a word in over a month. This sort of stuff is worse than whining. It’s pitiful. And I can’t stand whining…yet here I am.

The funny thing is that after typing these 465 words I am starting to feel better. The fog is clearing, I can see beyond my longish nose.

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