i’ve been really avoiding writing this morning, which usually means i’m avoiding some kind of feeling. i have been doing everything in my power to not do it. i wandered into the bedroom, and then made my bed. i made breakfast. i answered an email. i texted with family members. i looked up hockey games. i started the dishwasher. i opened a packaged. i called spectrum to try and cancel my cable. anything ANYTHING but writing. and yet here i am, writing. because i know that’s what i need to do.
i was texting with my brother this morning, because he’s moving from SF down to the LA area and is looking for housing. and as if LA housing and rent prices weren’t crazy enough, the post-pandemic inflation surge has made it absolutely impossible to consider moving. he even thought my rent was high, when it’s actually about $300 less than most places because i’ve lived here. but it’s only going to go up in August. so i really should be thinking about a plan around then. but it brings up the age old question – where do i want to be? what do i want for my life? which, i should actually do -that- writing which was assigned to me. if i imagined my perfect and ideal life, what would it look like? who would i be with, what would i be doing with my time? i’m someone who lives in fantasy, but doesn’t dare to dream. with fantasy, it’s a means to escape. with dreaming, it’s a desire to manifest a reality. how do i make my dreams feel attainable so i can have hope and zest for life rather than defeat?
i’ve got about 3-4 hours left of this day where i can accomplish the things i need, and perhaps one of them is dreaming about where i want to be so i have goals to look to. and maybe doing my taxes. always, with the taxes.
