Trying or Doing
It feels like a constant sense of trying. Inability to move forward, innate hostility toward the idea of moving backward.
Stalled.
But I can tell it is getting better. Half a lifetime to figure out that nothing really matters except for hope, except for kindness, except for the magic of manifesting something better, and all things true.
Moving this tired body, forgiving this immobile brain. It's always, tomorrow she'll wake up to a new personality. Tomorrow, and in the coming weeks, she'll care a little less, but in a good way.
Never enough time for any of the roadmapping, but plenty of time to sit around and scroll and scroll and scroll. What did they say in the room where they delivered the science that promotes the idea of addictive distraction, disassociation in seconds of soundbites? Did they look around at one another and go, "we got them? we have them all?"
Big thoughts for a small blog. Me placing blame on The Man as usual, when I could simply put my phone in the other room and write the Next Big Novel where I complain about The Man calling to me from the other room.
And I haven't even told you about the part where I worry, nearly all the time, about what everyone thinks of me.
In search of a light switch.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
