a & b
at this moment, i wish to write. i am feeling worried about mailing out overdue postcards, about reading a loved one's story, about remembering to take a walk tomorrow, folding the laundry, packing a box, triple-dusting the blinds three ways this way and six ways that way...i feel compelled to write, but i am doing most anything in my power to run from it. i am concerned that i am flitting about too much; i told myself i'd focus on one creative thing—music. am i already failing at consistency? i recognize these are symptoms of a larger issue at play. what i feel to be true is that a) "one thing" can include the one-thing-at-a-time rule, at least momentarily and as i find it to be helpful, and b) it is more about the act of following through with something and staying focused. lastly, it is important for me to feel the discomfort (and feel it fully, without ruminating or looking for ways to solve the issue; the exception to a "resolution" is writing, as i am doing now. it is important that i continue to let the thoughts trickle by, and remind myself that i can assess said ideas/worries/etc. later, though without the immediate casting of a line so my catch can sit next to me in the cooler as i work [or play]. bodies of water are interconnected, and its contents will wrap back around at some point [be it through rainfall or washed upon the shore], and if i am so worried that someone will come around and strip me of my thoughts before i can get to them [and they'd likely be doing me a favor], then let me remind myself that i am the sole inhabitant of my mental infrastructure) which originates from the fear of forgetting, failing, or choosing incorrectly. the irony, now, is that i have indeed written something. the twofold irony is that i have also written my first blog entry—an ambition i was temporarily keeping in the back of the cupboard. it seems the more tenacious i am with the things that i love, the more they wish to tuck their tail and hide from me; or it could be that i am simply indulging myself in the analgesic effects of writing that i had long forgotten, and my fingers are the sweet little keys that canter about the keyboard and liberate the rabbit from the snare. and maybe that rabbit is now mangled and missing a leg but once he works his way around a pencil and paper he's golden…
at this moment, i wish to write.