Every night for however many nights, I'd been hoping to finish and send this by the time the Nyquil kicked in. But words escape me more than they usually do, and apparently, so does time. I'm okay with both, though it doesn't make for on-time or perfect letters, but what is time and what is perfect anyway?
...Hmm. Maybe I'm not okay with it. I almost-hate this issue and want it to be done so maybe I'll just leave it at a few lines instead of trying to make sense of all the seemingly infinite swirls of thoughts that are impossible to follow and catch and encapsulate into something that "should" make "sense," and then I'll call it a day (at 11am on a Wednesday).
Does anything ever work out how we planned?
Surely sometimes yes, and surely sometimes no.
As always, thank you for reading! <3
I always pick a window seat, so I can watch the world go by. Or maybe I'm the one going by and the world is watching me. Like I'm just a cloud in the sky of its mind and it's meditating upon my movement in and then out of its sight.
The less work I have to do, the better, so this is perfect for me.
Speaking of work, I never wanted to. If this comes as a surprise to you, hello, my name is Sharon, it's nice to meet you.
"What's my dream job? Darling, I have no dream job. I do not dream of labor."
- James Baldwin (supposedly)
For days and days I've been trying to write about how I'm moved not by "work" but by the things that I neither pay or am paid to do. Like fishing in the South for an afternoon and being tickled by the ultimate nowness of the act. Like connecting with the land and the water as if in or in witness of a dance between sustenance and survival. Like taking photos of musicians making music and thinking, "I'm stoked enough about how my pictures turn out that I'd do this forever." Like going to a 6-hour concert and feeling all the love and also the alcohol and the giddiness and the starstruckness. Like dreaming about alternate pathways solely for the fun of it - becoming a drummer, a practitioner of Chinese medicine, a chef.
I've been trying to write about how I like to be nearest the exit, except on a plane.
Maybe sometimes the nearest exit isn't the door, it's the window.
Sometimes thinking about things is enough for me.
I've been trying to write about how I think it's okay to stay the same because we're never actually really staying the same - that's just an illusion. From the time I am born until the moment I die or at least up to now, even if I stay very, very, very still, in any number of ways, something is changing inside of me and outside of me. So, comfort is okay. Standing completely still and doing nothing is okay. I don't have to do anything for change to happen. I can just watch it or ignore it or resist it or embrace it. It doesn't matter.
I've been trying to write about how I thought I was at a crossroads, but recognizing the truth inside me is a lot easier now than it used to be, and crossroads now seem more about indecision, and indecision comes from not getting still enough to listen to the little or big voice inside that says that it's okay to let myself be laid off from a job with cushy benefits and it's okay to not take on another (similar) job only for the cushy benefits because it'll all be okay and anyway it's probably an opportunity to open up energy portals to something more in alignment with the fun things in life that are so fun that I lose thought of whether I have to pay or be paid to do it. (Anyway, it also pays to have at least one other job. How's that for lazy?)
I've been trying to write about how it's easier to write when my moods are low, but the tradeoff of my moods being neutral is that I'm unconcerned and in near-full trust of everything happening exactly as it will, whether I stand still or run towards or away from it. I thought maybe it was just the Nyquil and the more-than-a-cold, but maybe it's just me.
I've been trying to write about how writing can be really hard but taking pictures feels so easy. Maybe it's my expectations, maybe it's that pictures can be edited and filtered and photoshopped and words have to stand alone, all alone, naked.
I've been trying to write about how life is one big Matryoshka doll. Everything, everything, in smaller and bigger versions all stacked above and below one another. The micro and the macro. Within me and without. In waves that go on forever in both directions.
There has to be an easier way to do this.
Maybe the only thing I choose that isn't easiest is writing.
Other than that, I prefer easiest.
I was trying to write about how I hoard things and thoughts and ideas and articles and feelings and job ideas and real estate impossibilities.
And then I sit here letting the weight of all the things I hoard exhaust me and back to bed I go.
I was trying to write about how I'm gobsmacked by people who live loudly in the morning when others are still sleeping.
I was trying to write about how I'd like to write something cohesive and not so disjointed and how I'd like to write more regularly and how I worried or wondered if it were more regular whether people would become more or less invested or interested, but that's not my business, that's yours.
I said maybe it'd just be a few lines, but plans change.
Until next time-
<3 SBU
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