NOLA Notes

Not the dreaded Mean Reds.  Just classic blues.  I’ve got a case of them.

The thing about the blues is that you can run and occupy your time, your mind, and fall in bed too tired to even read.  But those blues?  They’ll sneak into your dreams.  They’ll leave their taste in your mouth when you wake up.  So that even if you dust yourself off and run again and refuse to give your mind any time to think.  If you stay busy, busy, busy.  Or if you pretend Sunday is Saturday because Monday is a holiday (to that, the blues whisper as they chuckle, “nice true,” because everyone knows the worst blues are the Sunday Night Blues). In the end, all of your efforts are rendered meaningless.

Finally, when you rest, and sooner or later you WILL rest, those darn blues are already sitting on the couch waiting for you, welcoming you, even.  Adding to your sentence, perhaps, for the escape you attempted.

No, you cannot outrun or -smart those dastardly blues.  They will be appeased only by your undivided attention being given to them. For as long as the blues deem fit. And in this particular case, I do not expect their visit to be a quick one.