Bad Turn

Sometimes you can't help but stop, look around, and ask "What the hell am I doing?" It's quite a bit like late night driving. You settle in, you get the chair and the A/C just right, and put on some immersive radio drama to accompany you through the night. After two or three hours you're not only comfortable, but totally immersed in what you're hearing such that the road and the wheel in front of you seem to disappear. The story draws to a climax, and just before the final crescendo, you realize something is wrong. Your turn was miles ago. The radio drama drops out of your perception as you try to figure out where is the next exit, the next bridge, the next opportunity to right your course. You swing around, ruffled, frustrated with yourself, and suddenly very, very tired. You try to get back into the mode: You rewind the drama, trying to find a good place to jump back in. You try, but it's too late. The mood is gone, and the ending has been spoiled by fulfilling it's entertaining objective too effectively. Life can often take a similar bad turn. Some three years ago, I threw myself into a number of pursuits all tied to a singluar goal: GRS. I had been working slowly toward it since I was nine, but only recently has it come to consume my every waking action. Learn computers for GRS.
Go to college for GRS.
Push down depression for GRS.
Bury suicidal ideation for GRS.
Get a job for GRS.
Advance your career for GRS.
Exercise for GRS.
Lose weight for GRS.
Eat for GRS.
Don't Eat for GRS.
Spend for GRS.
Save for GRS.
Live for GRS. Die for want of GRS. I've set myself on a long, hard road since before most had a realistic sense of what they want to do with their lives. While this may be admirable at some level, it's also a creeping intoxication that takes over your every thought and action. You can become so enchanted, you fail to see the road on which you trod. You fail to see what it does to you. And like late night driving, it's easy to make a bad turn. The thought of being post-op terrifies me in ways I haven't begun to calculate. With the stroke of a scalpel, the central focus of my life will be cut from me, removed, and cast aside with yesterday's biomass. Where there once was dedication and purpose will be a gaping hole and subtle metamporphosis.