I moved my office this week to a new location, patients booked for Monday morning.
This morning (Friday) it's all about the phone/internet install. The installer showed up at 8am, as did I.. full of anticipation that the process would be relatively quick & painless.
It's an old building, probably from the 1950's. Probably the same age I am, roughly.. The phone lines are in an office on the other side of some firewall (a physical one, not an internet one) that bisects the building. Neighbouring office doesn't open until 9-ish. The installer went away, scheduled himself to return at 9:30 after the neighbouring company arrives at work and opens their office.
Not so quick and painless after all. Luckily I can kill time here at home until 9:30 rolls around, in about an hour from now.
I used to be able to distract myself easily from hurrying up and waiting. There was always something I could be doing.
Now, I can't, so much. Over a lifespan I've taught myself to focus, and like anything that becomes a positive feedback loop, it feels, in circumstances like this, uncomfortably runaway.
I can feel each second float slowly by, slowness like some kind of punishment for existing, a seemingly endless succession of seconds forced to be beholden to some process outside myself, dependent on external conditions.
I guess that's what I get for painting myself into the corner of life I chose to paint myself into.. trained my brain into. Usually it's more interesting to me, because at least I can feel something moving, some succession of this "now" being slightly different from the now that came before it, and the one before that.. I can feel unseen rivers moving under my hands, placed on somebody's physicality.
This kind of waiting, more social, more dependent on other people in their social realm of existence, I have less capacity to endure gladly. I have to trust that their ordinary lives will fall into place so that mine can.
So, I write about stuff, even about being bored, because it kills outside time just a little bit easier.