Power Overwhelming

I now have an idea of how it feels like to be overwhelmed, to be overworked, to be overclocked beyond your advertised specifications. So many things are on my mind right now: work, the PR assignment, the PR exam, the first contract for our cosplaying services (if it goes through), tomorrow's Tactical Mob lesson (with its own mind-map of considerations), Saturday's birthday hosting (again, with its own web of intricacies), the massive BBQ gathering occurring on the same day, as well as the exact tactics which I would use in line with an always-altering strategy to achieve one long-overdue objective. Even typing those out took some time. Sheesh.

Anyway, SOF: Blasters is well on its way to establishing it own identity and image, with a website, ratecard and/or brochure in the works. Although still in its infancy, it is nonetheless priceless motivation for the people working for it, shedding sweat and blood, toiling through soil and mud. Just yesterday, I was about spent with everything related to this alleged-hogging of my spare time, but Edward's little proposal got my business gears running and restored a significant percentage of my motivation, even if it is for the time being. We'll see how long this will last.

In other news, it's been some time, but her visage still fleets through my mind everyday, although in decreasing frequency and intensity. Nonetheless, the phantom still exists, and remains a poignant force in my locus of control. I felt my lip muscles arch into a slight smile when I received her acknowledgement to a global message I sent, felt my pulse race a little, felt my heartrate increase. The canvas is still blank though, nothing has been written or doodled on it since the day I decided to leave it empty, since everything reverted to square one.

Awash with purity and laminated in innocence, the canvas remains oblivious to the movement around it, most of them without a shred of relation to the object, but some of them wrought with clandestine intentions. Nevertheless, the canvas still portrays its whitest side to anyone who would see, keeping the less-appealing wooden frame hidden from the rest of the world. However, all it takes is just one stroke of the paintbrush, and everything will change forever.

Should I lift up my slender brush, dip the head into my palette of unusual colors, and skillfully paint a maverick picture of chaos, anarchy and seclusion; or should I fold my arms, tip my feathered hat down ever so slightly and stare at the still-blank canvas with longing, hazy eyes?

Decisions, decisions.

In any case, she has to know through one way or another, that she appears in the mind of another living, breathing, thinking human being every single day.

18.