The world is like a smashed hourglass with mirror shards for sand. A busted reality where time flows faster and slower at whim and where you see yourself and your past and your future reflected in moments that can never be assembled in a proper pattern.
Which is all very histrionic and maybe works as an analogy only when you are three whiskeys in. Which I am not, but I still think that is where it belongs.
My day was full. I did what I needed to do, I enjoyed bits of it, I was challenged by bits of it. I survived the whole of it. I didn't feel completely attached to it. Or perhaps I was in the moment often enough that I don't have a litany of thoughts here at the end of the day.
My mind is quiet. The jobs have been done and the tasks completed. All manners of punctuation has been attached and found satisfactory. And I worry about that. Perhaps it is because I need something to worry about, creating phantoms from every shadow to add dramatic counterpoints to a life lived so like every other. Or perhaps the alarm bells are clanging silently somewhere and their sound will only grow until I understand, too late, that there was an issue.
Or perhaps I am simply not good at settling for satisfactory. But if every day was fantastic and amazing all of my limbs would fall off from the force of all the gesticulating.
As I leave the day behind and move forward to the next, I imagine a discombobulated incongruous version of myself, floating with all of the bits gathered in a swirling cloud around my head, like the nucleus of an atom. And my arms and legs and torso electrons zipping about, collecting and processing energy, functioning and doing with only vague direction from the brain.
I can feel a warmth growing. A light. Somewhere in my life. I am planting seeds and watching the soil. And I fear and worry. Because I would rather be cautious and sad then rash and hurtful.
But what I really want is to be dynamic and helpful and wonderful and amazing. Like I know I can be.
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