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The Mad Journey

I used to write about my personal life a lot more often, and a lot more publicly, than I do now. A part of that I think is because my personal life was far more interesting before. There was some form of drama there, something propelling it forward. Now it’s just repetition. Wake up, shower, go to work, deal with work, come home, eat dinner, watch television, sleep. I go on an average of three dates a year with an average of three women a year (I can count the second dates I’ve had in the last six years on exactly two fingers.) They don’t excite me. Certainly, they do not instill within me the same and usual passions that I’m used to.

I haven’t gone out on a date with a woman to whom I would write poetry in a while. And all of the women that I would write poetry to have no interest in dating me. Hm, problem.

I am a serious man. Except I’m quick to laugh and quicker to point out the farcical idiocy of any given situation and quicker still to crack a joke to relieve unnecessary tension.  But I’m self serious to the point of detriment; somehow holding myself accountable for my own actions and scrutinizing every time detail for error. I walk with a swagger and a confidence, but in the end I am terrified of failure.

And to think someone thought it a good idea to give me people to look after? Not just clients – though, yes, how am I responsible for the freedom and lives of so many people? – but now I get to teach and train and bring up others in my vain. I get to mold new lawyers, new criminal defense litigators, new public defenders. Who thought that was a good idea?

Then I come home and I am alone and I eat dinner quietly and I watch television and I pray that I can forget the days’ tragedies so I can sleep soundly at night.

And then you wake up in the morning and do it again.

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