It feels like progress.
Maybe it shouldn’t, but I am busting ass at work.
Of course, I would be writing this while at work and belying that point, but I feel kind of alert and alive and I want to remark upon that.
So this is the strange thing about lately: I have been doing alright. I have been honestly, and without hormonal attack and intercession, happy. Buckling down at work and doing the things I don’t like has been possible because I’ve stopped making it all so personal. I cannot hold back any tide on my own and my job is not to hold it back, but to stand firm and do what is asked of me and when the co-worker is not there to make faces at me and distract me and treat me like her personal rag doll to haul around and absorb all of her emotional detritus and backwash, I like my job. I like accomplishing things.
I try to remember…but my mind is no longer clear.
Matthew and the Atlas are doing their best to make me feel a bit cooler, and the fan is doing the yeoman’s work. I got my sister to open her other window and if the door would stay open, I’d leave it so, but we have enough of a breeze below these threatening clouds that it keeps drawing closed.
And the boys are at Glastonbury this weekend and there should be ways to watch them there and I cannot wait to see them again. More or less.
I’ve got plans and Dragon Age to play. I have fair little to sour me.
This isn’t about the past, but it’s about you, Mr. Future. I take the briefest moment to remark to you about the strange, anguished, spinning, movie-like clouds above. They don’t portend anything, I swear, nothing for us and I am not predicting anything, but maybe if I think of how it will be to have you adjacent and below this same sky, it will wake this long-sleeping fatedness we have with one another.
If I am doing anything whatsoever to slow our progress towards meeting one another, towards destroying one another’s Towers down to their foundations, for being whatever we are to one another in the end, I pledge to quit. Or start if there is some ignition. Some starter pistol to fire.
I am saying I see the charge in the sky, the will to surge and pour and all the forecasts say it will amount to nothing. I have no say over that. But one day it will rain. It’ll do it here, and hard, and these will be the crops to flourish under the flood.
If you see my metaphor, and you, Mr. Future, being Mr. Future and being someone I will one day love, certainly will.
In the meantime, I am eating right. As is required. And walking more, which is required, too. I should definitely have 10,000 steps here by the time I fall asleep tonight. I’ll make sure I do. That’s the report.