I stare at the ceiling drained by all the things I didn't do Tasks and obligations are notecards wedged between collections of thoughts slowly taking up space on my shelf until nails give and wood splinters Favors are rough, leathery bookmarks dominating Bible-thin planner pages straining and bending until schedules fan out in a fat, perfect circle of endless anxiety
Take up a pen Decide now to check the contents of the kitchen cabinets Struggle to remember what food you like Pick something you tried once four months ago Go to the store Forget the list, only remember the one thing Impulsively buy a weeks worth of that one thing Realize after making it and eating it why you only tried it once You now have six more days of food you don't like But you forget to eat one of those days Realize you don't care about saving money as much as you care about pizza Buy a lot of pizza Get acne from eating pizza for two weeks Cry about it (Also, food you didn't like sits in the freezer for months before you finally let go of the guilt associated with throwing not expired food away because your parents guilt-tripped you for not eating stuff you didn't like as a kid)
I'm calling myself out too so don't feel too attacked if you relate
You can think and shout, to solidify yourself and enforce who you are and what to do. Or else you invite the liquidity of your progress.
I have an attention problem. And a reluctance to deal with things that hurt me.
I have an internet addition, an avoidance of confrontations, a lack of will to follow through. Am I air? Evade the senses that bother you. Coast and coast.
I write to hold myself in one spot. To put my focus and attention into the repeating letters I know in patterns that form the words I know. My function is to imitate and apply here to the best of my abilities. Machines can perfectly imitate and apply but it is the eyes of a person to perceive and feel.
I am the owner of the actions. I could possibly not own this paper or this pen, but I have paid my attention and actions into this. The fingers, wrist, eyes, tendons. I am the puppet master of this stringed body I inhabit. Without me, this body is a shell. Your life, moments and sense of self are precious.
I am cold, lonely and bored. My confidence in self hasn't been awarded so I don't try. Where are my rewards? Where are my victories? What do I want? Can I stop retreating to my slumber and solitude? Quietly and slowly existing.
I beg for freedom. To venture out. To see and touch the dark side of the sun. May that convey.
It was supposed to be for handwriting. But I guess typed it. I wrote and I posted this. 2 actions right there I can own. Bravo me.