Flit and Fleet

holding-broken-world-1-1180020This is Sunday and I’ve written 309 words of something that doesn’t quite fit here, but is creative and pulled on my little neurons to create so it counts.  Five years in, it counts just fine considering some of the slapdash stuff I’ve thrown up here before.

So.  I know that my albatross is slowly crawling towards me, aiming to situate itself right on my back.  The sugar, caffeine, anxiety, worry, woe, depression cross that makes me so unpleasant, so fearful, so unwilling, so uncreative, so much worse than I ought to be.  Took this weekend that could have been about fighting that and did nothing more than scrape a label off the thing and dymo a fresh one for it.  Not nothing, not really anything.

But the Faithful Light and just my basic impetus to live says there are tasks tomorrow – have to drop my car off to get the brakes looked at.  Have to get gas in it first.  Have to breathe and smile, eat breakfast, pack a lunch, get dressed (I may, I imagine, try and do that one a bit earlier in the list).  Have to go to bed early enough that this is not impossible.

Here’s what I really need to remember: I cannot run so quickly I can’t walk.

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