librarian-thief

always wondering if i need it...

always keeping health at a safe distance...

always an arm’s length from any person...

were we ever more innocent

managed to plan a short story to hopefully write this week

get something done

it feels good, fluffy good, “I can finally breathe” good

why

why did i waste time exploring this melancholy mindset?

what triggered my need to be silently strong? Especially when there is no evidence I was succeeding...

waking up, wiping eyes, mentally listing tasks for the day without sighs or anguish or anxiety

slow coffee sips and sunrises

creating a story, a song, a video

creating anything

communicating with fans, with fellows, with creators

learning how to code for the next “big” project

tea and cookies and laughter

kissing my love because I can

jazz hop music drifting through the house, out the open windows

home cooking meals every day

stretching for the feeling instead of the need

smiling in spite of hard work, smiling because of hard work

Facing the shadow in the mirror, that black cloud possessed version of you. It’s haunting, ever-present. A sly smile and a dark-rimmed eye. The twin that will never go away.

It says things. Mean things. Harsh things. Truthful things.

You’re lazy. You had so much time, and you wasted it.

You’re going to eat another one? You’ve had three.

Crying? Think you’re so stressed? Try living in such-and-such a country with daily tragedies.

You want to write a book? And what do you have to say that’s so interesting?

They are small moments, dark moments, that stick behind your eyelids and giggle in your ear at night. The worst part is the truth. The twisted honesty in the insults and lashes.

I am lazy. I do overeat when stressed. Being overly stimulated makes me cry. I don’t have much experience to draw from for stories.

But… there are other truths. The same truths. Flipped on their heads.

I’m paralyzed by potential projects, potential solutions, potential experiences. I can see so many possibilities. The world opens up before me with every thought. I can see corners no one else cares to look into.

Food is amazing and I enjoy trying new things. Cooking gives me a creative outlet without any outward expectation placed on my shoulders. I can make food, watch TV, and slip into an easy, smiling rhythm.

Being around a lot of people gives me new ideas, new things to process, to consider. I take it all in, every detail. While overwhelming, it matters. I’m never stuck on one thread or some dogmatic ideal. I’m a sponge.

I do want to write, to tell a story; my story, your story, a human story. And while I’ve had limited experiences in my life, I can observe like nobody’s business. Maybe that’s why I haven’t had the opportunity to live some crazy life. I’d be too overwhelmed, too stimulated. I’m an observer.

It’s like waking up from a deep sleep. Yawning, eye rubbing, joints popping. Starting a new week is starting a new you, a new version, the future plans melding with the present. You’re a culmination of possibility and inertia. Will you move forward or stay completely still, paralyzed by potential?

I struggle every Sunday night before returning to an office chair at an office desk with an office computer. Anxiety eats at my gut, little black beetles gnawing away my weekend chill. I cry. I journal. I stare at the dark ceiling for hours. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.

Until the next morning, when I arrive. The emotions shift. A routine gives my body meaning while my mind trails behind. Coffee, driving, unlocking office doors. And when I’m finally present, I have a list of things to do, tasks from last week, a calendar of events. It’s a strict routine, a trapping routine, but it gets me moving.

The only positive thing about work right now is the easy inertia. I get moving quick and that can carry me through the ten-hour slog. As soon as the clock strikes four in the afternoon however, it’s like I hit a boulder. My energy ceases. My brain is frazzled, dazed. I step out into the afternoon sun, unsure who I am anymore. The drive home is most days a haze in itself. Unsafe, dreary.

I need to flip flop my time. I need my personal hours to contain all my inertia. I need to flourish in my writing, my paintings, my coding practice, my music, my Twitch streams, my IG posts. I need more energy after work, before work, around work. Work is not my passion, yet it takes all my drive.

I’m two different people with conflicting goals. A creative with no energy. A hard worker with a strict routine. Do I change my energy? Do I risk losing my job to fuel my passions more? Do I combine these two people somehow?

The solution isn’t obvious. Though I may be ignoring it. Because it will be difficult. Because I’m stuck in my ways. But change is the only way I will escape this monotony. This stuck-in-the-honey feeling. Everything is comfortable, stressful yes, but comfortable. Easy enough. But not mentally sustainable.

I need to change. And Mondays exist in a flux, a changing pattern. A new breath. A fresh look.

I could fall deep. Thoughtful. Outwardly checked out.