I should be doing something productive.
Like sleeping. Sleeping is always productive. It recharges you, offers temporary escape from the permanent insanity of living. And that inviting, little bottle of pills sitting on my dresser beckons so sweetly for me to just take one, go ahead and have a second, or even a third, if you’d like-
No. They’re starting to notice. The people around me. They don’t understand why I can be so despondent some days, why I can’t wake up in the morning, why I need so much coffee, why I get a faraway look in my eye and suddenly feel my throat tighten for no reason before I have to excuse myself and rush to a bathroom so I can brace my hands on a sink and calm my rapid breathing because I think I feel like crying but that would imply that something’s wrong and God forbid anything ever be wrong-
I’m rambling again. I’ve been doing that more and more lately, and it bothers me. I find mindless talking to be just that; mindless. No point to it, doesn’t accomplish anything. Doesn’t help anything. Just endless words strung together by commas and muttered by lips too tired to bother with proper pronunciation and, usually in my case, more bitter than the tea at the bottom of a cup.
I was talking about doing something productive. I really should be writing, besides these little blog things. Those don’t count. I should be working on all the drafts and ideas and character studies piling up in random folders on my hard drive. I haven’t even so much as opened any of those files in well over 3 months. I feel guilty for it, like I’m neglecting a baby or something because I have no clue on how to care for it. I should be working on first drafts, editing, revising, tightening up my dialogue, anything that doesn’t involve me staring at that dresser drawer that I know is full of sharp objects and medical supplies and everything that can make me feel so much better-
I should be painting my nails. I should be drawing a picture. I should be organizing the clothes in my closet. I should be cleaning my room. I should be knitting. I should be reading a book. I should be putting on make-up. I should be doing a crossword puzzle. I should be doing homework. I should be figuring out what I’m gonna wear tomorrow. Watching a movie, taking a shower, playing Mahjong, planning a road trip, drinking icy water, anything but opening up that stupid, stupid drawer and taking out a-
I wonder what tomorrow will be like? How will I feel in the morning? Will it be a struggle just to get out of bed, dressed, pour coffee down my throat to get moving? Will it be one of those days where someone feels the need to ask me if I’m okay, where my words will get tangled because it’s obvious that I’m lying when I say “Fine, just tired?” Is it going to be a day where I feel totally transparent, wispy, and faded? Like I’m not even there?
Or…maybe it’ll be okay? Maybe I’ll feel even a shadow of what it’s like to be happy and not just act like I do. Maybe I’ll see or hear something that makes me smile inside as well as out. Maybe I’ll meet someone that inspires me to take better care of myself. Maybe I’ll inspire me to take better care of myself. Maybe I’ll find a pen that makes my handwriting look beautiful. Maybe I’ll find a new favorite color. Maybe I’ll bake cupcakes. There are so many things that could go wrong tomorrow, but, then again, there are so many, many things that could go right.
“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
-Emerson
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