Dick sat by his computer and began to wonder what could possibly fill the dark tedium that had become his life of late. True, he still had his cats, and they were indeed a great source of companionship not to mention amusement and objects upon which Dick could vent his swollen spleen. But there was something missing. If he could just put his finger on what it was he might set about correcting the imbalance and hopefully achieve a more graceful state.
At that moment Tinker sidled into the room and began her incessant conversational curtailed meows. She had the knack of detecting Dick’s darker moments and would come around and rub herself against him meowing and looking up at him. Unless of course she jumped onto the desk and rubbed herself against his face, which was tolerable, but was followed by a momentary pause just as her bottom reached level with Dicks nose. A site guaranteed to put one of one’s breakfast and usually ending with a quick flying lesson for the cat.
This time Dick was in a more pleasant humour and was in need of some reassurance, even if it was from a feline friend rather than the current apple of his eye. Dick was in love again. But, more to the point, unrequited love again. It seemed he just couldn’t break the code that got one mutual admiration. Oh sure, he could make a good friend of anyone; he was reliable, honest and trustworthy. Maybe therein lay the problem. He just wasn’t dangerous enough. Either that or he was taken for a dirty old man. He just couldn’t win.
Not that being in love was the problem. Dick had become used to feeling strongly for one of his female friends after another, only to be gently disappointed as they declined his amorous advances, deferring to the preservation of friendship over only the possibility of a successful union. No, it wasn’t that. What he had begun to realise was that there was nothing that he wanted to do. Nothing that he had dreamed of doing that he had not done. Was it possible that he was just very easily satisfied or that he just had no imagination? Or perhaps he was indeed on the right path; after all, not wanting was a prime of some Buddhist teachings. Whatever it was, here he now sat, looking at the blank screen.
He didn’t want to go back to work just to feel like he had a purpose, because working for someone was not his purpose. Who could say what his purpose was? It had seemed to Dick, looking back over the years of his life, that he had spent short periods of a few years associated with people during which time he had started to help them out of personal or emotional crises, sometimes had a relationship with them, and parted on good terms, with both parties feeling as if they had gained something from the experience. Not so much a do-gooder as a hapless instrument of fate that synchronistically appeared at the right place and time and parted similarly. It was as if he had gone back to the office and was still waiting for his next assignment. It had been this way for weeks, months even. Could he have been retired off?
Was it just that he had been so busy trying to do the right thing for someone else for so long now that he had forgotten to have any interests of his own with which to fill his spare time; spare time being a thing that he had never had before as a busy parent and homemaker. Now, however, he had it by the bucket-load.
© Richard Holt 2012