Welcome to another day of writing. Today I started something new. I sense that my words are trying to sound more chirpy than the persistent frown on my forehead might suggest. I realize I have been trying a lot. But this feels closer to the heart, trying to make writing a part of my daily life, at least as frequent as my cigarettes. I tried to write first thing in the morning today – taking it a bit to the extreme, after listening to a TED Talk last night on a deeper living through writing – even before leaving bed. For me, paper and bed don’t go together, and I did not want to have to check my phone first thing in the morning. I am going to keep that idiot on the desk from now on. Spatial factors to influence performance makes it different from simply tinkering in that the former involves the heart more deeply. You care about it. Anyhow, writing became clumsy – my writing was illegible but I wrote about how I was feeling inside – scared. First thing in the morning, I admitted that I was afraid, that I did not want to get out of bed, that I wasn’t ready yet. I wrote these words, and pulled the sheet over my eyes; the room was brightly lit by the morning sun. Only some hours back I had expressed how thankful I feel for the bright sun; since my childhood, I expect it to cheer me up. The expectation has continued with brief alignment in our timelines that I remember fondly as ‘I am now a morning-person’ days. I left bed after a while. Since then I have written twice in the diary I started today, and once here, in my blog. Oh wow! Who’s counting the words now?
There was something else, that was bothering me. I feel a strong urge to let it come back to me so I can get to thinking about what can be done about it, but maybe I decide that when I remember, slow down a bit. Feel the rhythm, rather than skipping it. Let’s start slow. I will feel moment just as deeply as I feel the magic of music and sound.
P.S.: I have already asked my friend. The wait time was arbitrary.