It is Sunday. I have canceled all plans, and declined two offers of new ones. I’m proud of myself. My old nemesis FOMO came knocking at my door and I did not answer. I knew I had to sit down in my own apartment, in my own head and let things be worked through and folded over. Often, I wonder how it came to be that I have this many friends that I love, to be invited to so many plans that are equally lovely and wonderful. Often, I think it was all worth it to be desperately lonely for so long to be able to know the difference.
Just when I was lamenting about things not moving as fast as I wanted them to, they started moving into rocket speed. Sigh, isn’t that always the way. The time that once felt overflowing now feels taut. I forget to eat, I stay up later, let the dishes pile up and let things fall to the wayside.
Now I sit in my apartment and hear the front balcony door swing open and shut, and open and shut again. The door has never fully closed, the pigeons are cooing, the sirens are blaring and everything is as it should be. I keep thinking to myself what does it mean to commit to the life of an artist, the life of a poet? What is the work and where can I find it? I never have really resonated with discipline, of hitting the ground running. There must be another way to commune with this invisible thing; to wrestle with the angel so to speak.
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