a little thing that I wrote...

There are so many distractions everywhere. They make you cut yourself shaving, miss a turn, or have to ask to have a question repeated. They are difficult to rid ones' self of because there is always a new one to take the place of the old one. You cannot stuff the hole fast enough to prevent drainage of the noise back into your recently cleansed cortex.”I need to get out of the house” I say. But this only changes the flavour of the filler that is waiting for me.

This morning I was thinking about the things I've done wrong. Not necessarily in a bad way,. Just acknowledging that they exist and I have not yet forgotten about them. I did miss a corner on the way to work, but I'm so used to that that it no longer bothers me.

I guess I don't want to be bothered by sin once I've dealt with it as far as I have the power to . I know that others have participated in worse acts than I have, and some would not even think of doing some of what I've done. The comparison to others – good or bad – is not the point. I don't know what the point is, but I cannot live if the point is keeping score with what you think you know about other people.

So I just try and whistle a little tune and get on with the day. Someone asked me whether I was bothered when my screw-ups were thrown in my face. And to that I have to say yes...and no. I have not been humiliated in public, and my wrongdoing has not yet caused catastrophe in my day-to-day existence. So, in that sense, I learn to live with my mistakes, and it's relatively easy to do so.

On the other hand, I can hear an echo of lostness in my brain; a sound of the chances I've had and may continue to have slowly moving away. The weight of evil, sin, and wrong choices is rolling forward and putting all it's force on me (or so it seems). I find that some days the only thing I can do it to allow a little of the noise of life seep in and distract me. I'm like a drunk who actually cannot imagine not having at least a little rye before bed. That is the only way I can get through the day.

And that's why I don't mind if I cut myself shaving. I know there is more to the situation than a trickle of watery blood touching the neckline of my shirt. There are the big things, the things that actually do matter, or should. And there is the knowledge that, although I am not who I want to be, I am also not who I once was, and I will change again, and write a few more words about that time in life. It will probably sound a lot the same as this one.