Its almost time for mid year reflections. I guess it can always be time for reflection but this year I’ve been very focused on moving forward, how to get there, making goals, setting intentions, visualizing …
All the things.
I even have a journal made to help you set goals and intentions and act on them.
But I’m also exhausted, especially right now.
It’s been a week, even with the holiday. It’s been filled with good and bad.
Lately, all I can think is how very tired we should all be and how willing we should be to hold each other accountable and to demand change.
After all, change is the only constant. I’d argue that it’s the root of most fear.
How are you feeling as we come up on half a year? After this month? This week?
As long as I don’t move I pretend no one can see me. I’m a statue, gathering snow. Birds traipse across my table, eyeing my lone piece of banana bread. They examine then flit off to inform their friends.
It won’t be long before they descend, all for too sweet artificially flavored bread.
My pen stares stoically at my notebook. It needs to bleed. It needs release.
My notebook is having none of it, a lovers quarrel I’m sure. It remains steadfastly shut against the longing notes my pen wishes to deposit.
Quiet conversations erupt into laughter. Engines spurn to life. A world of constant din and none of it can be composed until the notebook forgives the pen.
I force them together, apologies be damned, but the pens strike is fatal; leaving an ink lined hole where a word should be.
I try again, gently this time. The paper shreds beneath the pen’s flow. Total refusal to cooperate. Ink won’t flow over paper, not while they’re not speaking this way.
All the world’s deadlines building unending pressure. Surely that’s enough to squash any relationship but pen and paper? I thought for sure they were stronger.
The briefcase and half empty glass of juice meant only one thing. Julia tapped her papers against the glass table. “Why do you always do this?” Robin dragged his fork through the syrup running over his pancakes. “Why do I always do what?” “This.” Robin pointed at her briefcase with his dripping fork. “Go to work?” “It’s lame. When I grow up I’m gonna be a dancer.” Julia leaned down to the boy’s level where his blue eyes pierced her own. “That sounds wonderful. I know you’ll do that but until then …” Julia lifted his backpack and ballet slippers.
I imagine the breeze rustling the trinkets dangling above me. I even hear them in some distant space, clanking against each other ruefully. I can see them battling for space, a place to occupy my mind.
I remember watching TV. Knights clashed their swords together for the attention of some distant maiden. Sunlight carves stark lines across my single mattress like the scales of a dragon’s belly.
I’m careful with this one possession. I lay still but not for long out of fear my waif body will destroy it.
I sink into the lines, willing the beast to devour me.