What is done now is saving us from what has to be done later.  Stitching in time.  Needling away.
It doesn’t have to be perfect.  It just has to be.
So I would prefer, I think, at this moment, to be spending these words on fiction.  I have a couple little linking scenes in my head and I would like to get the bones down on paper.  But I can’t really slide into that world and pay attention, properly, to what is going on here even if it is dreadfully quiet.  I am planning tonight to make another attempt at exercise, going without it is making me feel as though I am running through molasses.  If not molasses, then some other caramel colored treacle.  I’m going to wean myself off of this Diet Dr. Pepper once again.  It ain’t healthy.  It makes me feel awful.  It’s like this acceptable methadone to get over other things, but when you end up doing both, that’s not really working, is it?
Tomorrow: therapy.  Imperfection! Spasms. I was thinking about all the things I could explain to the new therapist, all the things that my aunt’s surgery is making me reflect upon as far as what my mom went through with her cancer and how it made me, for whatever whackadoo reason decide to inhibit the boundaries of my life  as well as the stupid, unhelpful things I have been thinking about even more recently that relate.  (If I were at home I would tell you these things, so perhaps we’ll edit this back in, or perhaps not, I am always in a rush, apparently.)  I was thinking about all the background information I could provide that would justify and explain and she would sigh, and go, oh, well, obviously you couldn’t do anything else besides the completely irrational things you did.  Tell me more, regale me with every last detail, walk me through why you are the way you are.
No, she’d go, okay, but that was ten, fifteen, twenty years ago…what do you want right now?  How do we move forward?  And it’s hard to say, or indeed, I’m coming to realize how easy and wrong it is to say, I want to sit here and tell you what it was like.  I want to stay in those moments until I get perfect validation and then, because I’ve just given you the obvious evidence of my inability to move forward, I want to just spin around and start again.  Tell it even better.  Even more better-er.  List between the waving worlds, from milky, sunlit kitchen table, to rainy, white sand oasis, to any other mental harbor that will offer refuge.  Never age, demand, break, or fail.  Just slip between, uncaught, as one of those wriggling fish below or one of those glimmers of light above.
No.  The purpose is to move forward, out of these thoughts, and into a future where things are going to get uncomfortable.   A future where none of that has to matter at all.  Where dwelling on the past is lame.  Where the wounds, such as they are, stop commenting on what a terrible blade it was that cut them and just shut up and heal.
A girl knows that if she were at home and if this were 11:45 p.m., she would find a way to get this accomplished.  Instead, I’m sitting here, distracted, feeling less than and knotting the anchors to my ballet flats so that I will have to drag myself out of here and rely on some sort of dinner to bring me back up to par.
Dawdling, that’s what I’m doing. I’m waiting for a feeling when none of this depends on a feeling.