A loose metaphor for an actor's side job OR When can I be superman???

HELP!
Please someone save all the babies from the baby seeking tornado!
Oh no: the puppies!
They're falling into puppy specific quicksand - that's quicksand that pulls the cutest and most loved doggo's into the earth to never be seen or heard from again!
Such horror!
Such cruelty!!!
Surely someone will save them!? Save us!!?!
Anybody! Save the the world! Save the puppies and the babies!!!

Never fear!
Somebody can!
And somebody will! SUPERMAN!!!
...
Just as soon as Clark Kent finishes typing up this article about the local street market/weird shaped whatever at the whatever's day whatever/Is generation blah, blah-ing the blah-blah-distry???
Sorry.
Superman can't save the day right now, Clark Kent has a deadline.
Clark has to meet the deadline, otherwise Clark's boss won't get off his back about deadline!
And what with print media already being such a tight racket to get involved in, Clark has no reason to complain, and it is SO EXPENSIVE to rent in Metropolis - he's just glad to have any sustainable income.
Hmmm, not sure he'll be able to save both the puppies AND the babies ... he should save just the babies - IF he has to choose one ... or maybe most of the babies and some of the puppies. Is that a fair compromise? Is there anything in the fridge for dinner? That spinach has to be bad by now, right?
Just save the puppies?
That's crazy, I have to save some babies.
Oh crap, I have only noodles and no pasta don't I? If I buy sauce, I can grab spinach too ... no. What if the spinach I have is still good, then I won't finish the spinach I buy, and then half of it will go bad and I'll feel bad for wasting it.
UGH!!!
... Half puppies, half babies?!
F@#% it! Why bother save anyone or anything?!
... I'll just grab poppeye's tonight ...
how many "m"s in "commitment"?

Uncertain OR don't ghost people, man, it can really play with their heads

I am uncertain.
Un- certain. Under certain. Under my certainty. Holding up certainty and in my exhaustion trying to maintain certain, I lose my grip- I have lost my grip on my certainty - not my sanity, that's a later entry (certaintly) - and I drop it!
It drops. I dropped it. I feel bad.
I feel bad and I don't know if I should.
So I do.
Just in case.
The worst of it is, I wouldn't know what to say to you now.
Not now, not today.
I wouldn't know what conversations had or had not happened.
Not for certain.
Not the true bits, right before the role play started.
Before I wrote your lines for you and imagined your saying them - your voice, your tone, your humor but all my lines.
Lines by me, but said by my imagined you.
Because I imagined you, when I no longer heard from you.
My imagined you knows all about real me.
I can't hide real me from imagined you.
And that's why real you might have ran away; because all that imagined you knows, real you must know, because I no longer know what you know!
So what I do know - what I know for certain - is that I don't know you now.
Not anymore.
I don't know you.
I feel bad, whether or not I should.
I feel bad that I don't know you.
Because if I don't know you, how can you know me.
You can't.
You can't, so you don't.
You don't know me.
So, I feel bad.
Now, I am certain.

SAND!!!!

Did you know we're running out of sand?
Yea.
Sand.
That stuff that nudists and Hayden Christensens wish wouldn't get everywhere.
The thing that Blake once wrote he saw the world in a grain of.
A substance I once watched a giant blue anthropomorphic cartoon newt turn into a window one Saturday morning - ensuring I would always remember what glass is made out of.
Sand.
Sand, as it turns out, is the main ingredient in concrete. And since we as a global community essentially build the concrete equivalent of one New York City every year, we now find ourselves on a crash course to burning through all accessible deposits of usable sand.
Father: the sleeper has awakened.
So severe is this rock dandruff depletion, that a new kind of criminal has arisen to capitalize on our shortages: Sand thieves.
Groups of plucky entrepreneurs who make their money by illegally seizing and selling black market sand.
Make that movie with a straight face, Hollywood.
So if you should find, one summer day, that you no longer can walk barefoot along your favorite lakeside dunescape - you might just have to settle for the nearest condo building.
But don't go to high.
Even if you don't fear heights, there's always a risk of falling.
I'm always afraid I'll want to fall - not in a self harm kind of way, but just a bizarre compulsion to sway forward and then do a flip or twelve.
The french have a phrase for this feeling: l’appel du vide. Not the flipping part, just the sensation of suddenly wanting to swerve into traffic, or step off the platform in front of an oncoming train. This emotion creates the shaky sensation of not being able to trust your own instincts. It literally translates into English as “the call of the void.”
Leave it to the french to make oblivion sound sexy.
I find comfort in knowing this phrase exists - “The call of the void.”
It suggests that sudden inexplicable bouts of self destructive thoughts are not only common, they're human.
And if it's human on an individual level, maybe it's also human on a planetary scale. Maybe it explains some of our behavior as a species ...
We didn't burn through every grain of sand because we wanted to. Sure, capitalism, greed, and general disregard for anything past your bottom line are the major contributors -
but is it not also possible that we may want to take a little collective tumble over a ledge.
As though we are compelled.

L’appel du vide - anyone?

Day 284

New high point of 2018:

I'm holding my tuckered out, 2 year old of a nephew - when out of nowhere he tells me he loves me.

I don't know what in life is better than that. But, if that's the best l get, it'll have been a life well lived ...

Day 283

And so our intrepid wanderer happened upon a stone too large to climb over, too heavy to move and too solid to break through.

All options exhausted, they had to face the reality of the situation: this impediment was simply too large to overcome.

So our hero forsook reality. They took several steps back until the boulder appeared no larger, in their view, than a simple throwing stone.

Our hero picked up this stone, formerly a boulder, and tossed it away.

The path now clear, the wanderer wandered on.

Day 282

Oh young(ish) hero, upon learning that our society's members are mostly possessed by several benign face hugging parasites - who block out most of the Lovecraft-ian horror surrounding them - chooses to weaponize their newfound enlightenment the only sensible way they can can in the 21st century: through their blog!

A millennial postmodern absurdist horrordramcomfanscifi.

Day 281

And so what do we lie awake to, wishing we weren't up beside?

Not the busy streets, still teeming with activity despite it being the night's time.

Not the pains in our own body; reminiscent of the day's labours done.

Not the nervous glee, at the prospect of morning's toil.

No.

None of this. 

It is that we are not yet worthy of our rest.

That if we were to just rush to the nearest blank page, with the promise to write just one thing more, then - certainly then- we might be deserving.

Of rest. Of reprieve. Of dreams...

We are , of course, worthy of rest.

We are all deserving of wondrous dreams, that they may inspire in us great acts.

That the indescribable colours kept in stock for the imagination's pallet, might be played with. That alien landscapes and sky ways and river fields and stills in motions might dazzle and befuddle our minds at rest. 

And then be forgotten upon waking.

As they must.

But that lingering residue that we will begrudgingly wipe away, along with the all too brief sleep of tomorrow morning, might leave us enough of a trail to entice.

To provoke.

To tease. To compel.

That. After waking we may tip our toe but one moment outside of perceived inevitability.

To fathom for an instant that thrillingly perverse coupling:

"What if?"