The time in me

Winter finally took its rightful place, even if it seemed to drag its feet this year before announcing its frigid colours. During my longer-than-usual vacation - I had not taken any time off during the year -the weather was rather rainy, and the temperatures were between autumn and gusts.

The cold was not a joke this morning when I returned to work, and it was literally piercing the bones because nobody had really been confronted with it since November, at least in this humid area that is the island of Montreal.

A sparkling sun, a straightforward wind, looked you right in the eyes to make you understand that you had no choice but to shiver.

This did not stop me from walking to the office. After all, it’s the only exercise I do besides some yogic stretching.

That was seven days ago. This is my second Monday at work, and my three weeks of vacation have been beneficial. I took the opportunity to finish once and for all some renovation work that had been going on for several years, a window surround, a ceiling that had been ripped open by previous emergency work on the roof, and even a homemade TV stand.

Those manual tasks we welcome, away from the acidic and preoccupying clatter of the brain, and imbued my body with a blissful sense of an end in itself.

I jokingly told my entourage that I could now sell the house, having reached a milestone and somehow reached a goal.

The farce may have hidden an uneasiness, and I can attest to the work accomplished and the well-being that the apartment now gives me. By chance and luck, I was able to buy a beautiful table and chairs to replace some old, mismatched furniture.

However, instead of really enjoying this finality, a barely contained feverishness anguishes me, reminds me that I should not give up so quickly, that I should continue, move on to something else, as if finishing was not part of my vocabulary, as if death could not be the logical continuation of existence.

This is me, confronting my success with the Great Darkness, admiring the light and the Shadow it produces.

Instead of sitting down, I stand with a will to throw away this and that, wipe the slate clean, empty dusty and prehistoric drawers, get rid of photos of a past and useless, and give, pass them on to a younger person.

Too many objects in this comfortable apartment.

Oh, there is still work to be done, especially since the house will need new balconies and a new roof. When you own something, you must submit to the maintenance dictates. Things are more eternal than we are, and they have in that their revenge.

There is a sense of foreboding around me, probably rooted in the sixty-four years I will soon be.

For many people, this is the time to retire. I don’t know what that means for me, not having the wealth to maintain my current comfort level, which I know is relative to what you do with your present and your money.

Some signs do not deceive me at work and in my personal life. They herald a slow tectonic shift creeping underneath the humble, earthy tangle of my life.

Winter has taken its place in the city, and yet my skin wants to shed its old plumage, the bark of my body is opening up to attempt some ultimate and hasty new branches. Is it vain or necessary? I have so much to say about what has been written many times. I am not original in my aging.

It is 9:30 pm, and I fall asleep. I dream a lot these nights, and my unconscious dictates its will with all the clumsy wisdom of its symbols and images.

If the winter claims its rights, the time in me requires my cyclothymic attention.

The time in me...

Solitary sand in a fragile glass funnel.

I return to my dreams because tomorrow, the clock of the others will also take back its rights in the gears of my destiny.