Maybe

Maybe you've been writing emails and suddenly only one out of three. . . one out of four are getting answered.  Maybe the silences are beginning to get to you.  Maybe you've worked too long and then have gone to the gym.  Maybe you didn't want to be there, but you worked out, stretched, and tried to tell yourself you were feeling better. Maybe you got home too late to want to cook and decided to go out to eat though you were not really interested in that either.  Maybe you were looking at the pile of Vanity Fair magazines piled up on the floor that you haven't touched since you decided to re-subscribe and it bothered you.  Maybe you sat down to check your email and you could not get a connection.  Maybe you were not in the mood to do a diagnostic check of everything, but thinking about trying to find the phone numbers to call from different companies to get help, you decided to spend the time trying to fix it yourself first.  Maybe you'd gotten down on your hands and knees and crawled around the wires and cables unplugging and replugging modems and airports, and maybe after all that you finally got it to work only to find that you hadn't any responses to your emails.  Maybe you showered and maybe you remembered that you told a fellow who has a studio near you that you would bring him "The Life Aquatic" because he had never seen it, and maybe when you got there even though his car was there you could not rouse him to the door.  And so maybe you decided to eat sushi though you did not really want to but it was easy, and when you got there, the staff came out like you were a hero returning home, and maybe with the first beer you began to feel better.  And better yet, maybe one of the waiters brought a book to your table and told you somebody had left it for you.  Who, you might have asked, but the waiter couldn't  remember.  Maybe it was a big hardback and you held it in your hands--"To the Ends of the Earth"--and suddenly you knew who hadleft it for you.  And maybe after dinner, you stopped at the liquor store to get a bottle of scotch and the man who sold it to you too seemed happy to see you, too.  And maybe when you got home, you poured a big glass of expensive scotch and maybe when you turned around your hand hit the cabinet door and spilled the drink all across the kitchen floor.  And maybe on your hands and knees for the second time that night, you began to laugh at the absurdity of what you call a life.

But I hope not.