screw your titles
My memory will endure by virtue of my messes.
There were so many this year.
We got off to such a good start.
The snow was powdery, the company warm. I let go of all the angsty stress, and kicked into gear. I hit my weight target and blahblahblah. It was disconcerting to not be discontent. Still some achy pining, but mostly muscle memory.
I kicked an awful addiction to kratom. For months, I was unable to sleep normally. But then, I was chemical free and running 7 miles a day. Then a friend died. And my last grandparent.
Then COVID hit, and my god, if we ever get hit with something like small pox or polio or superflu we are effed. We proved that we are wholly incapable of teamwork. We got a taste of panic, and it was almost exciting in its novelty at the beginning, finding little out of the way places selling toilet paper and hand sanitizer, friends making masks, working from home.
I lost one friend to the pandemic, a former neighbor. I lost another friend and coworker to cancer.
The smoke, my god, the whole country is burning.
Murder hornets and the single most vile person you can imagine making decisions that generations will bear. There was a serial cat murder in our neighborhood.
Most of my journaling is on instagram. I have a ponytail.
My doctoral program gave me an extension, and I finished Chapter 2, but honestly, not sure if my heart is in it anymore. There were some other tragedies I don't have the right to share, but needless to say, it has me questioning how I want to dedicate my time. Too often, I found myself in silent mantra, don't stress it, none of it matters, you will fade into dust anyway, just spark joy.
That's not what I want, either, deep down.
We got off to such a great start. I have no right to give in to apathy.