The day goes by without anything worth noting, but by the time the night is nearing its end, there’s a void from not having sat down earlier to jot down some thoughts. I pull up the blog editor, which I often use to write, though sometimes I’ll start with a word processor for musings I don’t believe will be ready to hit publish by the end of the day or maybe even by the end of the month. A strange phenomenon about older writings is how they become tired and worthless to me if they linger too long in digital storage while the things I publish amuse me well into the future.

So here I am, uncertain what to share, half mindless, and trying hard not to be distracted by one or more of the dozens of tabs I have open. It’s evening, and I have a reluctance to start on something that might drag me in and hold on to me staying up late. This need to be considerate of waking at 4:50 to get my metabolism working before the heat of the day kicks in is a nod to aging as I’m trading late evenings burning the midnight oil in studied focus for an uncertain promise of gaining a bit of longevity or at least some quality of life as I move into my later years. Should anyone say that 57 years old is too young to think about this heavy subject matter is either living in denial or hasn’t turned 45 yet. The devil on my shoulder, who honestly feels like the smarter entity, says, “Get yer life on with gusto and take advantage of midnight merriment as one never knows when the curtain closes,” while reason, which only feels lazy as it makes a logical appeal to my stupidity, is trying to convince me that I’d find myself tired and unfocused anyway so I may as well get a good night’s rest.

But the restless nerve impulses that drive my fingers to find a kind of comfort as they intuitively search keys that I occasionally stop on to draw small circles to affirm their smoothness give me a sense of peacefulness. My mind (or maybe it’s actually my fingertips) is delivering instructions to my hands, waiting to convey whatever it is that will materialize here on my screen. As I search and stumble, finally capturing a bit of momentum and a modicum of discipline to ignore those pesky tabs, like a bell going off ringside for boxers engaged in their art, my phone in the distance bleats its summons for me to satisfy a curiosity about who texted me. I know full well I’ll waste my time answering the empty message that will likely end up being an annoyance only working to distract me, but I must give in as though compelled by a Pavlovian tone that demands I overcome my will. I can use the excuse that I’ll hit “save” as the PTSD of using computers 20 years ago conditioned me to be leery of these digital systems, although they rarely, if ever, crash anymore. While my PC needs a few seconds to do its work, I will lie to myself that I can jump up and be back before the task of storing these bits is done. Off I go.

Small talk with a friend is mostly always good as during these times of continuing self-isolation, it’s either me needing to talk to someone or it’s the other way around, so I try to be available. Expecting the seasonal text message about the election, it was instead a friend wanting to chat about something or other. Upon my return to letting my fingers glide over well-worn surfaces in another attempt at getting them to stab at keys while a twitching thumb gives space to form words, I am here with nothing much at all, so maybe it’s best to say good night.