My life feels odd. I’m adrift mentally and emotionally. I’m still bleeding from a multiplicity of wounds received in rapid succession. Things have calmed enough now to feel and attend to them. My brain is also starting to calm. My thinking brain is turning back on.

Things don’t go well for me when reactivity is driving the bus.

I don’t have much in the way of words yet. I struggle to get them past the wall I constructed to keep things going when the world was falling apart. I do have old things, however. I’ve yet to get to that digital springcleaning I promised.

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puttering.

behind the enforced busy work,

beyond the minutiae and mundane repetitions that, if necessary, 
will fill every waking hour and minute,

there is, bubbling up from underneath,

a belief in something more.

an awareness that current life 
is lacking.

robust accomplishment is absent,
pushed aside by the fear of falling short,

effort is avoided in order to minimize risk.
 
nothing of value is achieved

when we choose safe instead of soar.

we pretend we’re satisfied with good enough,

content with happiness at the margins if it means
avoiding risk, failure, and grief.

abandoning all hope and efforts to escape,
choosing to plod along instead,
 subordinate to the black clouds of lurking doubt and taunting fears.

committed to an unremarkable life of time-wasting putterings.

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