plans are the fiction of their scheduling world. we create them ideally, then back them up with other guesses to create a spherical revolution of air.
although i’ve raved about the benefits of to-do lists and outlines to block out time, there’s a solid amount of anxious hesitation before i engage in creating a forward-thinking, hypothetical layout. to answer the natural inquiry, i feel like a dog approaching water as a swimming virgin because i’m afraid to fail. modulation is the sin of functional work.
but all our world includes are grievances and wrongdoing. the guilt of letting go of an initial blueprint is hard to bear before it happens (like anything else, the present moment never reaches the tortured image of our imagination). it’s sits as an infant, demanding focused attention and care. adhering to original directions is difficult due to the rapid evolution of our state of mind.
along with that pitiful excuse, i’ll say the environment may change in a similar manner. however, i feel more comfortable blaming myself than a biome without the emotional capacity for targeted annihilation.
there are plenty of relationships that i couldn’t finish (how can you finish one?). these micro-pangs of disappointment could be striking a deeper chord within me, couldn’t they? skipping over a planned practice session recalls memories where stretches of uncommitted determination gathered dust on my drum set. avoiding a sit-down with school flashes pictures of a dark, desolated apartment with communal bathrooms too populated to risk the danger of social interaction.
continuing the diagnosis, this split-second pause between aimless afternoons and productive grinds could be the result of the aforementioned poor performances.
get me an electric screwdriver so i can drill through the diner walls and hardwire my power to its energy geiser. this way my dire circumstances are a flipped switch from a wiser circuit board replacing my driver.
but where does the shock come from to reach that ivory block? if a button can grant the expulsion of a knot, and my reach is too short to press the top, aren’t i just as lost as before, now with one more pile of logs that i can’t chop?
perfection has no perks. it hordes one collection — deception. it’ll tell me about promises and political election, but once i accept it, i’m left with the dead weight of those intentions. flawless is free to run wild and ruin every invention meant to appreciate one’s own selection of quirky directions.
are your gratitudinal assets in proper shape? do you thank an unresponsive void for the grace bestowed, and the awful nightmares inspired? i’d like this to replace the grandfathered, negative judgements thrown on a lack of action.
instead of extracting the responsibilities i let freeze in the cold as fuel for downward spirals (the gravity of our conscious is upwards, constantly acquring and compiling information to prepare for our future encounters with questionable stimuli), why not uncover the achievements checked off in that window of concentrated effort? they are renewable, rushing through water and transferring electrical ions into foresight.
when i’m at peace with the present, i’m more compelled to trudge toward a balanced, specific, and respectable career in the pure absorption of reality.
i’m caught in the net of rebooking stops on an itinerary. i might miss their beautiful views, but i might miss these current, picturesque animations too if i don’t let the former go.
– D K T