Every morning, there’s a tiny internal referendum about how I’ll meet the day. I find myself caught in cycles, and some days was written to both diagnose that and become unburdened by it. Past me and Future me conspire, but only Present me can decide how each day goes.
some days, uncomfortable and grumpy, a stall in the morning will cascade across the day. I’d call it rotting, but it’s usually accompanied by some stewing on the inactivity itself, so not altogether inactive. Those days, you go to sleep mad at yourself for some ambient sense of unmet productivity.
We’re broadly susceptible to thoughts that offer zero resistance, so some days we end up in a pile, looking at our phones and turning down our senses. The next day then is somehow massive, over-compensating for the sunk cost of yesterday. some days you hit the pillow with a completely crossed-out to-do list and a brain still buzzing with ideas.
I’m an introvert. I’m an extrovert. I’m kinda new each day. I don’t know why?
My extrovert knows that participation is a gateway to opportunity and experience. Every chance I’ve had in my life can be traced back to some seed that that side of my personality planted.
My introvert waits in the wings every time, pre-emptively annoyed at whatever non-sense the extrovert has committed us to.
It’s not a binary, but a palette with a million shades and a mind of its own. Each day hovers over the palette, sampling moods, mixing them together, and I don’t always feel fully in control of the choices.
some days was written to remind me to be less punitive with myself about it all. Productivity is a construct, and though vague expectations of “contributing to a functional society” can be motivating, there’s no reason to always reprimand yourself for not carrying out “tasks” consistently.
There is so much going on, always. Cut me some slack, me.
If you mix every colour together, it’s darkness.
Do easy. One colour at a time.
