Tick. tock.

Not really headed anywhere.

I'm stuck on time.  I wrote myself onto a sticky time trap and I'm starting to chew on my hands to get free.

So, instead of pushing on with the story, I'm ruminating in front of the window, considering alternative measurements for counting the passing days.  It shouldn't matter.  But if the sun doesn't appear, then how could there be growth, life and death of a day?  And if transition from day to night is indistinguishable from night's surrender to dawn, but there is still a need for rest, then when would rest occur?

Day and night are like predictable birthday presents from my grandma.   I knew that whatever she deigned to stuff into a box she saved from two Christmases ago would precisely define the person I was supposed to be, even if I was not that person.  Day and night cut the trail of moments that, if followed, lead us toward a sustainable pattern, make us live.  The sky brightens and the sun comes up.  We become active; we move about; we remember grandma's presents; we define ourselves to be a person for her or another.  Later, the shadows lengthen and the wind blows and the sun falls away.  In the dark, we go home, maybe we quiet our minds and make things simple.  We rest.

If there is no day and night, then what provides the pattern that forces us to live?  I looked up the schedule for the folks camping out in the Antarctic, and they generally follow the clock regardless of the light or dark beyond their icy igloo walls.  

Ah, well.  I could just keep writing.  It's not that important; it's just time.  Truly, it feels like a stoner's dilemma; I would laugh until I cried if someone pointed a finger at me.  I'll drive to town, find free parking and drink hot chocolate.  Maybe I'll ask a librarian.  Or the old guy who sits on the bench outside the gelato store.  I don't really need an answer as much as I need to stop chewing on my hands.