I keep saying, One day at a time. The stress of my day job usually means I have to take things with a positive eye, or else.
A good day would entail: The boss is in a good mood, not feeling nauseous on the ride to the venue, no slurs to bring you down during the event proper. A good day would entail being home before 9pm, cozying up in a blanket with someone, watching a movie. A good day meant I could rest easy that night, without the phone buzzing every 10 minutes or so, it meant I could sleep soundly because crisis was averted.
But these days, it’s hardly that.
These days, people are always angry on social media. Logging in to any platform is taxing, exhausting, excruciating even. If anything, I’ve learned that you can’t really please people, no matter how good you think your intentions are. They will let be.
These days meant having to go through the emotional rollercoaster ride for 5 or so hours every morning, while you wait for your inevitable doom to set. It all depends on the weather, they say; and even if you say it’s good, it’s hardly ever that close to really being good. Sometimes it means: Shit did not hit the fan. Or: For now, we are safe. Or: He is saving it for later.
These days also meant holding close to your heart the things that matter, like your muse, like your pen and paper, like your voice. It is so easy to lose them, take it from me. They fly, fleeting with their little wings, far away, because the fires of the world consume it until there is nothing left to burn but your skin.
I am so consumed by the hustle of everyday that my boots have worn out.
But instead of giving up, it is easier to say: One day at a time, and then one day more, and another, until the days are gone and good at last, and nothing is left but to heed and lick the wounds. It is easier to recite a poem: Darning-needle dragonfly, have done with eye, ear, lip and tooth; finish them, sew dark, mound dust, heap with slumber sleep; now tie all knots ever so neat, pump silence in blood like sand in river deep.