I wouldn’t claim that I read a lot. What I would claim is that I prefer to read over a lot of other activities. But I feel clobbered with tasks without a moment to enjoy what I am doing the most. For the past year, even writing has taken the absolute last seat.

It is that odd chair in the corner of the room that keeps collecting valued pieces of life. A once-worn white top that isn’t stained enough to be washed, but can’t be hung back up because it is a bit wrinkled. The cotton pants I like to wear over weekends, left there because putting them on the hook behind the door makes an odd-looking bump near the elastic. The old iPad, charging quietly as it balances on the edge of the backrest to avoid getting lost under a month’s worth of clothes. The clothes I know I will finally pick up in a couple of weeks to throw in the washer.

That chair symbolizes my writing habit. It’s the one piled with all those important, valued belongings that I need to get to before I can sit on that chair, turn on the leaning lamp and just be.

I tried to motivate myself to write today by reading an old book review, but it only made me feel smaller. I used to write from my heart, from my gut, and everything was beautiful. Today, it sounds fake. Extremely peripheral. And I know exactly why, and exactly when, writing became a chore instead of a de-stresser.

I add the pieces to make a story

You and I will recall sitting on the porch

Watching the leaves blow

While the clouds thunder away.

I try holding it together

Believing it will make sense at some point

When I will open my eyes and 

All the puzzle pieces will come together. 

I keep going 

Because there is no other way for me

This is who I am and will always be.

The goal is clear

Though the path is foggy

Almost choking me  

Tightening its hold,

For now I’ll let it.

Reminding myself 

I am here 

still trying 

And hoping

It will all make sense

Tomorrow 

Or maybe 

The 

day 

after.