A work in progress: 3a

Back again … and after only three months. Time flies when you’re mental.

So, in order that we can finally begin to think about moving on, here it is … the first of the last of the milestones. Praise Jesus and praise all the cute little ornaments on His holy shelves.

To expedite matters and to atone for being too lazy to sign up for NaNoWriMo this year, I will attempt to post one whole milestone a day until they’re finished. And they will finish.

Yes they will.

Milestone #6:
I’m a bit embarrassed about this one, given how scathing I’ve been in the past about people who believe that “The Universe” gives a shit about them and their lives (I can’t link to any examples because they were written in a blogger format that’s incompatible, so you’ll just have to trust me on this). But here it is anyway:

I was out walking the dog one morning, about six weeks after I’d left work, when I was suddenly overtaken by An Urge. This wasn’t your common, garden-variety urge, like suddenly wanting to play all of your DVDs featuring James McAvoy really, really slowly and imagining what it would be like if it was you he was pashing instead of that skank on the screen. No, this was more along the lines of: The Urge To Address Something Up In The Sky.

I don’t know what the Something Up In The Sky that I wanted to address actually was. I only know what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a cloud or a bird or a plane or argon (my favourite inert gas). It wasn’t God, The Universe or any dead people I know. It wasn’t one of those floaty things on my eyes that I see when I look at a white wall. It was just a Something, and instinctively I knew that for one-sided conversation purposes, it was to be found Up In The Sky.

So I raised mine eyes to the heavens and said (out loud, because you can get away with that when you’re mental), “Well, that’s it. Everything’s totally up in the air now, so it’s up to you how it all falls  … because I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m supposed to do next.”

Maybe my conscious was talking to my subconscious, I dunno. The obvious answer would be to shoot me up with a shit-load of LSD and dump me into a sensory-deprivation tank monitored by a barking-mad scientiest so that I can find out, just like they did to that blonde chick in every second episode of Season One of Fringe. Standard practice whenever there’s a niggling little question in the back of one’s mind, I would’ve thought.

Anyway, that’s it, really. Nothing happened. I didn’t get any kind of revelation from the process; just felt a bit stupid and embarrassed …

Until a fortnight later, when the revelation did come. And nothing’s been the same since.

Til tomorrow.

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