Much Ado About "Nothing"

Once upon a time there was an overthinking professor, who spent hours trying to write witty prose that rhymed and hummed along, and also entertained. But alas, it was harder to rhyme than to sail the streams of his consciousness. So he just started writing…

Such is the brain of the scattered dreamer. Even when free time comes his way, and his work is caught up with no responsibilities breathing down his neck, he finds a way to write a poem that doesn’t rhyme about the pain of nothingness. About the pain of emptiness and filling that emptiness with chores and house work and turkey dinners and movies and popcorn and chasing dogs. Such is the reality of the holiday break; the vacation that is never a vacation from his tortured mind.

For if the professor relents to the pull of nothingness, he might find that he enjoys it and that it is time to start thinking about the “R” word, when unlimited time for relaxing will be both his reward and his curse. Many work all their lives for those days, to be able to do what they want, sail around the world, wear out the rocking chair or enjoy watching others worry about how the world is spinning and whether or not we have decided to blow it up, or if we will send a man to Mars. A younger man’s thoughts no longer fit his expanding waste of time.

The professor knows this is a trap. While simultaneously longing for the days of the future when he is in control and no one can tell him what to do, those days scare him for he will become his own boss, and he is a terrible self-manager. Yet there are still goals that he writes on sticky notes and pastes all around his messy office like wallpaper. It is yet to be seen whether or not those lofty goals will ever come to pass and if the sticky notes will be stuck on the wall like gold stars, crumpled in the trash, or frozen in their place like flypaper to serve as a warning for all those who dare to dream.

Music lines his mancave walls by the thousands, books overflow his bookshelves, and the word processor longs to see what adventures he will add to this digital storybook. There is always work to do, but it can wait until he enjoys this remnant of free time, even if it kills him. Choices like swatting flies buzz and pester his brain, breaking his already fractured concentration and nagging him to choose an activity or stare blankly into space. But the music does not please and the books are dusty and full of old men’s exploits. So for now he sits and ponders the future that squeezes him like a boa constrictor, getting tighter and tighter as it vanishes before his eyes. A crowd of younger faces take the reins of time and lead us forward; he knows the world he is preparing is not his own, it is only rented from his children.

Maybe he realizes time is a commodity that not all have, and many more every day lose the battle for control of their beating hearts. Maybe he knows that those few hours of leisure, or writing, or chasing dogs and putting out fires, are all eating into the time he has left. It seems that loftier pursuits should fill in those gaps of emptiness, but that is not his choice. It is out of his control. The down time is there to show him that time is a gift  that haunts him more every day as it ticks away and slips through his fingers.

Always the optimist, he knows he can’t end his ramblings on such a depressing note. So he concludes by looking around at his leisure pursuits, knowing the music contained in his walls will satisfy others after his melody is played out, that old men’s exploits are always going to be the fuel that propels us forward, that chasing dogs is something that is not just reserved for the young, and that love is never a waste of time.  It is time to love those who need it, taste the turkey and smell the dressing, and remember that although he is a professor, that is not how he started. Over 40 of his early years were taken up as a teacher, father, and part-time dreamer.

He ends the day with a deep breath, a smile, and a nod to the nothingness. Let’s dance.