In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2.55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
To my dear friends, with their settled lives;
It is the metaphorical Sunday afternoons, those moments when you just have too much time to reflect, that bring you down. Optimism smashes to pieces, like water slapping off the rocks on a stormy coastline. The bright cheery thoughts fade into nothing, as you realize that the rest of your day, at best is likely to be spent doing the dishes, or, if you're really lucky, watching someone else do the dishes. Even the dogs can't be bothered to be entertaining on this late Sunday afternoon.
Invariably, thoughts turn to the dramatic, as you languish in the despair that is your own personal boring hell, and you envision yourself doing something great, magnificent...and then reality raises it's ugly head once again, as you're forced to acknowledge that even on your best day you couldn't throw a strike, let alone slip a fastball past Derek Jeter. Now, you're an old arthritic man, who considers it a fortunate day if you remember to zip up your pants before setting off to work.
All of my friends at school grew up and settled down
And they mortgaged up their lives
One things not said too much, but I think it's true
They just get married cause there's nothing else to do, so
I'm just sittin' on a fence
Yes my friends, you are getting old. Your life is dull, and your pleasures are fleeting. See, that's what you get for growing up!
Sincerely,
Peter Pan
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