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Too many and too much 0

Dear Bradshaw,

Dude, I’m dying. Suffering from life’s worst disease = life itself. My glass is half full (of wine) but, but, but… But what? I don’t know, Shaw. I don’t know anymore. And that’s the problem. What am I doing here? Where am I going? What’s the meaning of it all? Is this my lot in life? To wake up, exercise, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to sleep, and then do it all over the next day? That’s not a life. It’s a vicious circle. I want to toss in the towel. I want to go to sleep and never wake up. How easy would that be? How sweet to sleep through the inevitable? But, well, here I am, with just a smidgeon of time to write you these letters.

Do you ever get like that, Shaw? Do you ever feel like the world is so big you’re drowning in an ocean of air? Do you ever feel like life’s swallowing you up, one atom at a time while there’s no room to breathe? I know, Shaw, I know. I shouldn’t be complaining. After all, you’re where you are and I’m where I am. But it’s relative, isn’t it? As unlikely as it may be, you could be quite content where you are while I’m miserable where I am, right? Why not? Choices. They are what they are, whether good or bad, right or wrong.

On another note, I’ve got to tell you that I have too much stuff. I own too many things. Here I am, making enough money to get by and yet I’m overflowing with possessions. How does it happen? Where does it all come from? Too many shirts, too many pairs of pants, too many books, too many DVDs, too many CDs. Too much of this and a ton of that. Too many and too much. Life is too complex for me. I can’t keep up. Can’t seem to narrow it down, you know, simplify it to the essential stuff: my lovely wife and our cat Jimi, a toothbrush and a comb, some oxygen to breathe and water to drink, maybe an apple or an orange in the morning, an occasional plate of rice or pasta (and wine!) in the evening. Instead, I’ve got more than I need. Our apartment is full of plates and glasses and pots and pans and pillows and towels and sheets and tables and chairs and brooms and scissors and mirrors and soap and all kinds of other stuff. And if that’s not enough, even my pockets are full, stuffed with keys, tissues, gum, my cell phone, a pen, and folded pieces of paper with my work schedule, notes, and Italian vocabulary. Then there’s my wallet, also crammed to the seams with my license, credit cards, metro pass, phone card, money (paper and metal), and what-all else. I should have been a caveman. ‘Ugh’ would have been my name, and I’d have carried a stick around and clubbed people senseless if they even suggested a better way to cook rabbit meat.

Instead, here I am, chugging along through the year 2009, trying to stay afloat, struggling to keep up with the technology and information that evolves at the tick of the clock. Meanwhile, I’m watching the rainfall, wishing I could sink into the ground and disappear with the drops. Guess I’m feeling kind of ho humish today, you know how it is sometimes. I’m hanging in there though, like a booger from a nostril.

Holy smokes! That’s it for today = depression, despair, trying to survive or, at least, to find a reason to survive. Every day is a struggle, up hill all the way, with barely enough time to stop, take a look around, and enjoy the view. Imagine me in your mind, Shaw. Can you see me here, high on the mountain, sitting on an outcrop and gazing out over the land, watching the horizon blaze with light as the world rotates, and the wind pushes clouds through the sky? The trick now is to grab hold of these few seconds, to milk them for what they are because, well, the alarm’s going on. It’s time to get up. Time to start climbing again.

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