Out, Brief Candle...

On the Jukebox: "Winds of Change" by The Scorpions
Mood: Energetic
Quote: "I already saw them online... when I searched for BORING!" ~ ABC's Centerville
Flair: Wagonful O'Pancakes

Just a short note today as I am all ready to jump into writing another exciting chapter of my book... I've left a bloody mess to clean up on aisle 5 and should get back to it ASAP.

Have you ever been watching a terrible movie and all of sudden the thought occurs to you that you will never get those two hours of your life back? It's terrifying. Lately I've been feeling that way about many things. Why do people like to waste half the day in pointless meetings when one or two emails could accomplish the same thing? It's taken me a while to arrive at the conclusion that my time is too valuable to waste. I finally understand what Shakespeare meant about the sound and the fury that signify nothing. Apparently he's had to hang around with idiots and time-wasters too.

I find myself once again in limbo. I see the sands in my hourglass running swiftly to the bottom and know not whether the fates will conspire to rush me now or give me reprieve by turning the hourglass on its head. I may have a week or I may have many months to accomplish certain tasks that loom ahead of me. I find it most irritating not to know because until I have a solid deadline, I am my own worst time-waster. I certainly don't want to jump the gun or burn bridges (I've had to rebuild them too often) but would a date carved in stone be too much to ask?

So for those of you who wonder why I let my phone go to voicemail or I take my sweet time responding to your emails, Facebook comments, and such... it's not personal, it's called time management (and limited daytime minutes on my phone.) Today I leave you with an excerpt to ponder from the Bard's Scottish play that I find to be very thought provoking.

MACBETH
Wherefore was that cry?

SEYTON
The queen, my lord, is dead.

MACBETH
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing