Unfinished yarns

Earlier tonight, as the recliner I perched upon pitched north (quite expectantly... since reclining is what recliners do), I watched a shabbily encased cord unwind from its chrome enclosure as the lamp I was attempting to repair (while plugged in) was further traumatized. After stabilization, the frayed weaving and electrical components protruding from the lamp's base illustrated a greater deficiency.

This particular fixture exudes robust durability. It's trifecta of positional lamps appear bomb-proof. When one of the illuminating colanders popped from it's pivot last week, both my spouse and myself were baffled. Since the hour was late, my response was to deal with it later.

It is later. So now, attempting to calm my racing heart after nearly electrocuting myself and/or pitching strait off the chair and out the window, I discount the allegorical substance in those frail and frazzled wires jutting like guts from a steel pole. This experience was about the moment...

I remember thinking, as the chair shifted beneath my stupidity, "Don't do anything stupid, like kill yourself." This was not a magnanimous revelation. No, I was thinking of myself and all the stories I have started and not finished. I've got too many ridiculous tales that are already, in one way or the other, preserved as lasting legacy yet need major overhaul. To surrender those yarns like tadpoles into the trout stream, immature and incomplete, would be my warped vision of a true tragedy.