Most of my day is spent working with numbers and equations. That’s a big part of coding. Putting logical expressions into code for the desired outcome. Commonly the desired outcome is a functioning website.
What’s a functioning website? It’s a website where you click on a link and you go to the new page. Contrast that to a non-functioning website where you load the page and your browser freezes. That’s what bad code can get you.
While I mostly think in numbers and math throughout the day I do have my literary impulses as well. I’ve exhibited them on this blog before. Sadly I don’t get as many opportunities to exercise the literary side of my brain on a daily basis as I would like.
When you’re sick things kind of stop.
Your body is busy defending itself against invading germs, leaving you with just enough energy to watch TV…
That’s how this post originally started. After that second sentence I became blocked.
I always run into this problem. I’ll start writing something and then start thinking, “Who cares?”
Every time I sit to write I’m looking for the perfect start. The perfect way to begin my first sentence that’ll encourage (and in large part demand) the reader’s continued audience. I commonly find myself at a loss for words, a phenomenon seldom experienced in real-world rapports. How strange is this static written medium to choke the chattiness from me? How strange it is that I find myself with an endless stream of word and story to share with my neighbor, yet the effort to do the same via e-mail results in horrible and uncomfortable stagnation.
In the morning of the first day of the month Sam opened his eyes while still laying in bed. They opened to the morning, with sun streaming around the blinds, and focused on the life of the day that was waiting around to be seen. There was no particular focus to Sam’s eyes. Rather, an embracing of the new day occurred seamlessly, bridging the night from yesterday to the morning of today. The past seven hours snubbed out as but a fantasy of a memory, remembered as myth and nary believed to have truly elapsed.
A gentle whispered memory falls off the cliff of Sam’s brain’s right hemisphere. “Remember…” is slowly whispered as it falls from his mind’s perception, bringing Sam’s head to turn sharply right on his pillow in hopes of catching the dream before its gone forever. He digs his cheek into the pillow while furrowing his eyes, digging to find the memory of the dream and unearth it to face the bald sun. His eyes grow to greater pitches of effort before reflexively relaxing as acceptance of loss is found.
Sam’s head turns to its left, resting from its excursion of attempted salvation. His eyes close and his brows relax. Sleep’s siren call is heard in the back of his mind, beckoning him back into its warm embrace, beckoning for Sam to steal away for the day, steal away from the sun, steal away from all that he had promised to accomplish on this day. He pushes his head further into his pillow and rearranges his arms, laying them to his side as he prepares for his second round of sleep.
Time snaps and all reference points vanish. The still void returns to Sam’s most frontal perception, statically charged and chaotically churning, an abyss of reality that Sam knew just so recently ago. Aimlessly floating, Sam drifts just above the sea of dreams, occasionally dipping his toe into the froth to test its temperament, hoping to dive in when it settles to its most inviting state. A small smile forms on Sam’s corporal plight, pushing his cheekbones higher as his mind begins to remember the dreams in which he once took flight. Away from concern and away from despair, Sam’s journey toward serene dream seems all but guaranteed to begin once again.
The alarm begins blaring and Sam is harshly pulled from ‘where he can’t remember’. His eyes bolt open and his right arm careens left, silencing the alarm and sighing while again greeting the day. Good morning Sam, I hope you enjoy your stay.