Restless

Feeling distracted today.  Restless.  I know whatever the future holds will take time, a lot of time, to come to a head.  I want results now.  I want to write a novel in a day, get published tomorrow, and throw every penny I can at childhood cancer research.  But it doesn’t work like that.  The process is slow.  So very slow.  I want to scream sometimes.  And I want to strangle myself for wasting time.  Every.  Second.  Counts.

But distraction does serve some purpose.  It helps keep me sane.  It enables me to be creative, to dream.  Distraction nourishes my soul.  But too much distraction is bad.  I don’t want to feel out of control and neglected by myself anymore.  I want take charge.  Resolve face!  I am going to write.  I am writing.  Writing is key.  At least in my case.  I am ready to be reunited with myself, joining body and soul.  I am one.  Breathe.  Say it again.  I am one.

What was I doing, anyway?  I am trying to remember when I lost myself.  Maybe I’ve never been found before.  I’ve never been this determined, that is for sure.  I feel horrible when I take a look at what got me here.  Children dying.  What the heck?  Seriously.  I should have woken up my soul ages and ages ago.

I am stronger now.  When I am writing, I am freer.  I am happier.  More balanced, for sure.  Why didn’t I make time for it before?  Why now?  Better now than never, I think.  It is scary, at times.  It’s frightening to put myself out there in the world when I haven’t really stepped out before.  I’ve always hoarded my writing.  But I don’t want to be another Emily Dickinson.  I want to get out there in the world, to help people who need help, to love people who need love.  There is so much need in this world.

The problem is, when I try to look at the whole picture, I panic.  So I have to break it up into smaller pieces.  And distraction helps.  It is only when the distraction takes over that I run into trouble.  So I need to set goals.  Start from my whole picture and work backwards.  The are holes, of course.  Places where I have no idea what to do.  Places that are empty.  And that’s okay, I think.  They will be filled in eventually.  Writing is a slow process.  That cannot be helped.  It is what it is.

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