The Messenger

We are sitting in the tub when she spurts out inquiring whether I am still interested in going back to school.

The switching of tracks is palpable.

“No.” I say. “Being that I couldn’t even keep up with my online education. I am wary of devoting myself contractually to such a costly time depriver. For it is time which does the artist most need and breathe. And it is time, which even now, in the throes of such complete obsession, I find myself still curiously too short of. I think the best thing for me to do is wrangle myself back tighter, fix myself into personal regulations, keep an eye on my health and happiness, and above all write even more regularly than I am doing at the moment.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Well, Mozart, or your little Van Gogh.”

“I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you!” she says.

“And I’m not angry with you for that, just struggling to stay on that side of the fence.”

“It doesn’t matter if you are angry with me or not.” She says. “For I am only the messenger.”

“I should have recognized your face.”

“Isn’t the change in the tracks palpable?” she asks.

“Yes, but oftentimes it is difficult being aware of the sensations we are feeling.”

“That’s why you have to be in control of every situation.”

“Or you do.”

“Being such the case, we’ve chosen to reveal to you our nominee for this moment’s life alteration. I believe that you see as well as I the emptiness in your life where should exist a purpose and a propellant. College could be the perfect peg to fit that notch, or a job, with a down to Earth organization. Have you ever considered volunteering?”

“Who sent this message?” I ask.

“This message has been sent from area code eight zero zero nine four seven thirty, written by UNKNOWN CALLER on June ninth, eight seven zero zero at four thirty AM.”

“I would like to add this number to my do not call list.”

“Your request has been acknowledged.”