On top of:
- doing a pile of dishes unprovoked at 6am,
- having a 12 hour shift, and
- then having a session with my therapist...
- epilated my legs,
- did my laundry,
- swept the war-torn floors of my apartment,
- washed my hair, and
- even danced with my old-new hula hoop.
There used to be a time when I would write exhaustive lists of things I'd want to get done. Whether or not they got crossed off the list was mostly besides the point. I would dream of days like this, because productivity begets productivity, and I'd always envisioned that a clean apartment and groomed self would be the key to unlocking my inner mojo. Once said inner mojo was unlocked, all the fantastical items that occupied my mental vision board would slowly materialize, one after the other.
But tonight, with the few hours of sleep I have before me, and another 12 hour shift looming, my (finally) droopy eyes and weathered self are softened knowing that such ideals of grandiose doing linger in my fantasies no longer.
Instead, I dream of early morning hikes when the crisp, cool air tickles my arm hairs with the potential of what the new day brings, oat milk lattes over languid readings of literature classics, a pep in my step as I write about something I care deeply about, and countless moments to take in the sublimity of being alive. I dream of walking slowly, albeit purposefully, towards the end I know we will all come to someday. I dream of being still in the presence of something great, and grateful to be a part of it. I dream of being intentional in the person I become, and finding the compassion to forgive myself if I stumble along the way.
Maybe I'm inspired.
Maybe the great Depression is on a lunch break.
Or maybe I should have rethought that 6pm oat milk latte.