Chopping Wood. Finer and finer, splintering into smithereens, she's complained, I'm merely stacking it, it needs to be chopped, chopped more, further, splintered into shivering kindling...
I oblige. I disagree, wood burns better as logs, the bigger the log, the longer it burns, but this is philosophy. Her preference is for the kindled log.
I try to get ahead, chop more wood, free up a morning or day to just laze in or attend other things, but the more I chop, the more they burn.
I do what meager woofing I can. And it is meager, I'm lazy, demotivated, I have an abundance of other things on my mind which aren't getting done. I'd rather be paying rent and living alone than living with the generous flexibility of "do what you can..." Because I can always do more. I can do great things...but I am here, in the woodshed of the Kootenays, I don't belong here, I am waiting my summons to greatness, I make my notes, work - sporadically, on my projects, meet her friends, her boyriend-not-boyfriend, friend, just friend, he seems a good guy. An equally dark sense of humour. Funny, flirtatious, (uh-oh, she knows), bright (enough), we get along.
Time passes.