tug of war

It’s time to go home. It’s time to give up on this other thing and that other task. There’s a beer in the basement that’s pulling on me, two miles away. Gravity and beer pull in similar ways, I believe. We understand each equally well.

At the same time, as I was leaving a meeting this afternoon in the union building, I passed the ballroom, empty. Deep in the corner was a grand piano, lonely. As the building began to reduce its engine speed to idle and the activity in the halls diffused, I was drawn to that lonely corner.

In a day of writing letters, digging through files, collecting lost pieces, licking envelopes, composing emails, sitting in meetings, and other productive doings, I think I should go find the bus homeward. Or maybe that ballroom door is still open. In between those two pulls the tug-of-war leaves me here in front of this monitor. And the only way to determine who wins is to stop writing.


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