I didn’t want to write this post.
And I don’t know why.
Today was full of hope and planning and goal-setting for many people. Short term “LoMein and Luther and chill” goals as well as “write-a-book-while-running-a-marathon-on-the-way-to-reiki-healing-instruction-class” goals. I was participating in none of these. I just wanted to go home and go to sleep.
The day started a long time ago in a most bizarre way. At least I think it was bizarre. The night before had been interesting and charming but very much ongoing and not edited for length. So my dragging barometer of what constituted bizarre may have been skewed. (Sidebar: What I saw later in the day while working at my clinic? Slanted scales or not, now THAT was bizarre. I won’t dane to attempt an explanation or visual description, but it involved my creative use of an infant’s sock on some one who was definitively not an infant.)
Sleepy hours through the night with whispered worries and finally revealed fears and hard-as-hell admissions of self tend to bring really, really early dawns. Despite my initial bleary-eyed concerns, I was not mugged on the street of Lawrenceville.
I was…envelope-bombed. Not in a bad way. I wasn’t served with papers or a subpoena. Nothing frightfully legal. Instead, I was confronted with my insecurities and shortcomings during a blink-fast sidewalk exchange. A lot to take in visually and emotionally, especially on the dark-side of sunrise. But a remarkable memory.
It’s all actually turned around into a quickly crafted game of tag. Rules and length of play to be determines. Prizes are negotiable. Victor takes all. I usually despise games. I am awful at every single one. But this time?
Run, boy. Run.
Aside from wanting to win this twisted little playground game. I don’t have any plans or goals. Not tonight. (Although I do have at least the hint of a plan to get in bed in the next hour.) Not next Christmas. No immediate ideas nor long-con grifts. No “want to” or “really love to” or “it would be amazing if”.
Saddest, no LoMein. Seems silly for one. Haven’t gotten to Luther yet either.
And this makes me a little sad.
Not gut-wrenching, cry-on-the-shower-tiles sad. Just…sad.
Sometimes I don’t want to push. I don’t want to make it better. I don’t want to try harder. Those days can be trying. When turning and walking seems light and peaceful. But, if I want to, even a little, maybe I should fight. On pages and other places. If I don’t want to write and push and keep trying, I don’t want to. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.
I hope that’s okay. And if it isn’t, who’s going to tell on me? The fact that I’m considering what happening in my head and world and not collapsing under it, is pretty okay. Talking and writing about it, means it’s exceptionally okay.
I didn’t want to write this post. Or the chapter that follows. But here we are.
With that consideration, I don’t give a shit about the new year. I want to do tonight. Working. Looking and trying. Being enough. Fighting for better.
Here’s more of what I’m trying. Even if I don’t always want to.
147 East 9th Street – Chapter 3.
Have an exceptionally okay night. Even if you don’t want to.