I am sitting at my desk too fatigued to type, too tired to try. Neither my spirit nor my flesh are even willing, much less able. I know that if I do not write now, I will not write today. This is my only window to create.
My brain is frayed with the need to produce, but I am paralyzed…I feel pent up, desperate. My ability rides me. My lack of it tortures me. I am torn apart.
I can only second these sentiments.I desperately desire to make something. I look over the to-do list of projects and ideas I could work on but I cannot muster the motion. I cannot manage the movement.
The microwave beeps continuously, reminding me that the coffee gone cold and already reheated twice is ready once again, hoping that this third time will be the charm. I sit unmoved by its provocations. I cannot muster the motion. I cannot manage the movement.
I wonder if I am the coffee cooled to room temperature through melancholy’s wanton disinterest.
I take a sip.
It is not as warm as I’d like but it will do.
I find a few words. They too are not as warm as I’d like but they will do.
Some days are like this.
The coffee gets cold. We drink it anyway because we’ll take what we can get, and we let that be enough.
The “heat” wanes more than it waxes. The “spark” is only strong enough to flicker, and it fades before it ever becomes a flame.
It’s strenuous to scribble words into sentences. We write them anyway because we’ll take what we can get, and we let that be enough.
We worry so much about “moving forward”, about “making progress”, about “moving the needle”. Maybe any move, moves us forward. Maybe every movement makes progress.
Perhaps, if we are moving at all, then we are moving forward…