Life has been fast. Life has been full. Life has been busy. I’ve been building some dreams. I’ve been following some leads. I’ve been writing up a storm.
I sit in a coffee shop downtown and I watch an actual storm through the window. Cars splash in puddles. Lights reflect on the pavement. We’re all safe and cozy and calm inside here.
I wonder if there’s such a thing as a productivity hangover. The previous night I had no beer. I had no wine. I had no spirits. Still, I woke up with whiskey lips.
My email tries to tell me it needs me. My to-do list rudely stares, hoping to catch my glance. My work sits antsy by my side. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t muster the strength to pay any of them any mind.
I’m too focused on the shape of the rain on the window. I’m too lost in the sensation of chai on my tongue. I’m too enamored with this lethargy that has taken the wheel.
Do we take enough time not just to write, but to write for just ourselves? Do we spend enough hours not just exercising our bodies, but moving our bodies just for ourselves? Do we sit, do we gaze, do we dream, do we sleep, do we feel with no objective beyond simply completing the act?
People around me converse with their friends. People outside run timidly and quickly through the rain. People on the bus head to their next destination.
I sit here. I do nothing. I nurse my hangover.
I have no objective. I just write. I write not to pitch, to publish, to sell. I just write words.
They are enough. The way the leaves dance on the trees outside is enough. The dark, humid clouds in the sky are enough.
Everything. This moment. It’s enough.
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