"Why do you start all these projects that you could never, never in your wildest possible dreams ever hope to finish? At least half the guilt is squarely your fault!"
She had been shouting things like this to everyone. The only one who was not tied up was me, the Writer. I was commanded to write this miserable scene.
"Guilty - you're all guilty! How much time have we just utterly lost today - dissolved in thin air! Let's review.
Woke up early. Unable to fall back asleep. Immediately started researching something on a mobile device. Wanted to be prepared for later - wanted to solve some genealogical mystery.
But was it a relevant to you mystery? No.
Was it the piece of research that's been sitting on your desk for the past three months? No.
Was it the research query a cousin texted you about yesterday? No.
Was it the research query a friend of a friend asked you about a month ago? No.
Did it have to do with the book we've been cowriting for the past two years? No.
Was it an interesting piece of genetic genealogy that could be shared in the online space you're supposed to admin? No.
Rather, one of several online spaces that has been a dying desert wasteland - abandoned for the new shiny ideas! No!
No! It was a totally low stakes, completely unrelated piece of random research which resulted in almost nothing -
- I can hear you in my brain, Researcher. The two and a half hours of database searches may have resulted in two new connections created somewhere to some branch of the human family on the giant familysearch family tree, but it doesn't justify the massive opportunity cost. The story wasn't good enough to use for the pathetic podcast project. The outcome was mundane and sad. What a waste! UTTERLY FUTILE AND USELESS. You will never contribute to the libraries of human knowledge if you insist on wasting your time this way."
***
Several days later, the Anxious One was alone in a corner. The others had undone their gags (the Anxious One never was that thorough, for all her bravado) and were sitting very far away from her, not speaking with her. But I was still commanded to sit and observe, and record the scene.
She was curled up in a corner, hugging her legs to her chest, weeping softly, and muttering things like, "I'll never get the time..." and "there's nothing I can do!" and "All of my efforts are just a waste."
The Tragic Romantic handed her a small piece of paper with these lines which we had written together, scrawled in messy, free-flowing handwriting. The kind of writing that was personal, the stuff of journals and letters.
Please hold fast to your good heart.
Don't think about the futile part.
You are allowed a moment but
don't forfeit who you truly are.
I shall not join you wallowing
in lonely words of saddest pain.
I know that it is not your fault,
but only you can take the reins.
I am a lamplight on your way,
to mark the path, lest you should stray
along some darker, easier road.
Come, let me all your fears allay.
Come, let me in my constancy
help you to walk with honesty.
Do not forsake your truest self,
the self I know you want to be.
