There was something I wanted to write about this morning.
It was probably profound. I remember feeling oddly excited.
Then I had to spend the afternoon working on my year-end tax returns, and just like that, about 20,000 brain cells died a martyr’s death.
And with their loss, a potentially breathtaking, insightful and moving literary masterpiece was consigned to oblivion.
I suspect the monotonous drudgery of modern existence has evolutionary value. It’s designed to prevent us from burning our existential wicks too rapidly through unfettered artistic creation. Think of all the geniuses in human history who burned spectacularly but far too quickly, their lives ending in a glorious (yet ultimately lethal) conflagration.
For this reason, we must thank the heavens for unintelligible tax returns, unassailable traffic jams and impregnable to do lists.
Our lives will assuredly be longer in the absence of protracted exposure to the Muse.
(At the very least, they will feel vastly longer. Every time I get stuck in traffic in EDSA, I always end up feeling as if my whole life has been spent in a Vehicular Twilight Zone, where recollections of my past are false memories implanted by vicious aliens trying to find novel solutions to insidious variations of the shortest path problem.)
(If you don’t know what the shortest path problem is, consider yourself lucky. Who needs advanced analytical methods to find near-optional solutions to complex decision-making problems anyway???)
Anyway, I digress. Which is the natural by-product of losing more brain cells than the daily average.
Perhaps tonight, as I sleep, surviving brain cells will gather the fragments of my moment of inspiration and fuse them into something that, when fully fleshed out, will alter history dramatically (or at the very least, win me a Pulitzer; or, to scale my expectations down somewhat, land me an obscure Blogger’s Award).
Whether the resurrected inspiration will survive another Attack of the Impregnable To Do List, however, is another matter entirely.