Futility or Something Like It.

Life. I find the ridiculousness of it to be absurd at times. I mean, seriously, it seems to be nothing but sheer insanity and any "downtime" that one thinks one will have is bound to end up in 3AM condo painting sessions instead of exploring the nightlife of a new city. Or something equally as unexpected. Perhaps not every opportunity at relaxation ends up in life happening as it usually does, but it certain does appear that most do.

As of late, I've been ever increasingly finding myself wishing to spend my days wrapping wire around yellow antique glass beads to make a new and exciting pair of earrings or entertaining myself with writing blogs about whatever my little heart desires rather than wasting away behind a desk, trapped between the three barren walls that is my existence inside a cubicle. I blame this feeling mostly on my damnable creative side that has lately been dying to be expressed. However, I suppose that most feel as if their true passions are eating away at their insides.

I spent a bit of time on an airplane the other day reading an article written about how most people find themselves unable to make true time for their passions until after retirement. How tragic, I thought to myself. It does seem that the unlucky ones, who just happen to make up the majority, spend their entire lives working for a paycheck and not able to do that which makes them feel fulfilled. What kind of a crappy life is that? It seems that existence at that point is merely an exercise in futility with no true sense or purpose.

Sigh. Why can't a book contract fall out of the sky or some fabulous boutique in Philly approach me with a too-good-to-be-true offer to wholesale my craftiness. I suppose that it would help if I would put myself out there more, but that is entirely too frightful.

But, I suppose the alternative may be much scarier in the long run.