Have been catching up on serials I missed while I was away, rented season 1 of Prison Break, which is entertaining in a highly unplausible yet wildly exciting kind of way. Feel a bit like Lincoln Burrows though, like on death row awaiting for the seat, but having hope of escape torturing him throughout. Alas, today is my day though, at least it ends today, and I can stop hoping. Let the DC flow, all 10000 volts of it.
Don
20070321
20070319
The Torment of Hope
It's one of those days. And I'm starting to feel like these kind of days are getting a whole lot more common, especially with so much down-time now I am having now. I was MSN-ing with a course-mate who's down under, talking about how things are going down at the squadron, how his first solo was so shit-hot and the course feeling under the weather and all, then the feeling hits me. I know how stressful and crappy things can get when you're there, how the days seem to last forever when you're suffering. And I wish I was with him. Still.
I failed. I thought I had come to accept that fact, adjusted to go on with my life. I planned, charting out a course for which I can take outside of the Air Force, seeing a life ahead without the military in my life. I enjoyed, eating every damn thing I missed in Australia for which I have every chance now to gorge myself with, going out with friends and trying to have a good time with my girlfriend. I looked past my mistakes, past the last shitty sortie I had, putting away the dress blues and peak cap, returning every damn bit of flying equipment back to where they came from. And still I look back. And stare.
It's like I never left. I sleep most nights, late as I can trying to tire myself, so I don't end up dreaming so much, and still I see it. The operations board, the planning room, the safety equipment room, the aircraft, the cockpit. That view from 1000 feet. I wake up, thinking I woke up too late and looking for my flight boots, then I see the view outside my window, and realise it's not the Officers' Mess Annexe I'm looking down at, but Redhill Market. The checks, the R/T, the QFI's voice is still with me. I remember every word.
I've done my clearance, but I haven't had my closure. Maybe signing the contract termination will do it for me, but then it's not till FTS gets the thing together for me to sign. I still have to wait. Life goes on, but painfully slow. I want to forget, move on, but time doesn't want to move any faster or heal any better for me. I want to carry on, but then I haven't ORD. I want to stop flying, but I still have another chance for the commercial route. I want to live my next phase, but it's not here yet. I want to say I quit, but hope doesn't let me. I know it's only a matter of time, but the question of when is eating at me, and somehow, not knowing only makes one think too much, hope too much.
Read somewhere before, some book somewhere, Woman Warrior or something like that, my Lit text, that normal people move on and say different things. They tell different stories. But crazy people tell the same story over and over again. They never stop. Because they hold onto something so stubbornly, they let go of their sanity. Let me let go, please.
Don
I failed. I thought I had come to accept that fact, adjusted to go on with my life. I planned, charting out a course for which I can take outside of the Air Force, seeing a life ahead without the military in my life. I enjoyed, eating every damn thing I missed in Australia for which I have every chance now to gorge myself with, going out with friends and trying to have a good time with my girlfriend. I looked past my mistakes, past the last shitty sortie I had, putting away the dress blues and peak cap, returning every damn bit of flying equipment back to where they came from. And still I look back. And stare.
It's like I never left. I sleep most nights, late as I can trying to tire myself, so I don't end up dreaming so much, and still I see it. The operations board, the planning room, the safety equipment room, the aircraft, the cockpit. That view from 1000 feet. I wake up, thinking I woke up too late and looking for my flight boots, then I see the view outside my window, and realise it's not the Officers' Mess Annexe I'm looking down at, but Redhill Market. The checks, the R/T, the QFI's voice is still with me. I remember every word.
I've done my clearance, but I haven't had my closure. Maybe signing the contract termination will do it for me, but then it's not till FTS gets the thing together for me to sign. I still have to wait. Life goes on, but painfully slow. I want to forget, move on, but time doesn't want to move any faster or heal any better for me. I want to carry on, but then I haven't ORD. I want to stop flying, but I still have another chance for the commercial route. I want to live my next phase, but it's not here yet. I want to say I quit, but hope doesn't let me. I know it's only a matter of time, but the question of when is eating at me, and somehow, not knowing only makes one think too much, hope too much.
Read somewhere before, some book somewhere, Woman Warrior or something like that, my Lit text, that normal people move on and say different things. They tell different stories. But crazy people tell the same story over and over again. They never stop. Because they hold onto something so stubbornly, they let go of their sanity. Let me let go, please.
Don
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