A half an hour has passed and I’ve not written a word. In the other room, a CD is playing: “Dharma Collection”. It stores in a red velvet case. I have had it for years and have never quite decided whether I like it.
So it is one of those mornings.
I am hyper aware of the fact that I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. There is still no planned trajectory, no curated bits to signal an identity. Hell, I don’t even know what to write on my social media profiles.
I am noticing this morning what I miss now after what seems like two years of unraveling. Building and unraveling, really. Two years? No. Three years.
Two years on medication.
Things are not this bad. It is just another dark morning in what feels like a holding pattern.
I’m not one for planned trajectories. They seldom turn out as “planned,” life being such a random cosmic circumstance. Maybe just roll with the indecision, a task that feel outside the comfort zone for most of us (I don’t exclude myself in that).