Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my eyes closed and covered, trying to fend off the worst of a migraine. I sat in my chair listening to podcasts and folding paper airplanes (much to my cats’ amusement) and longed for sunset so I could return to my usual pursuits—that, or at least go to bed.
This week, the city is repaving the roads in my neighborhood. I can’t park where I usually do, so I’m resorting to pulling onto the lawn, a tight squeeze between my roommate’s struggling hydrangea and the telephone pole. Every time I inch the car into place, I mutter and grumble about when I’ll be able to pull in without thinking about it again.
I’ve been meaning to schedule a doctor’s appointment and purchase new tires for the car for several weeks now. I forgot, again, to dig out a timer that I was supposed to bring to work. My cat is rubbing against my ankles, reminding me that in a moment I should go and feed her. Maybe it’s just me, but I find myself most bothered by the things that require my attention when I don’t feel that they deserve it.
I dream of the days when I’ll be able to lose myself in my writing, when jobs and bills and smaller obligations will sort themselves out. But this is just a study in denial. There will always be something to distract me from daydreams—for one thing, if I really do mean to make writing my career, I will have to put some work into selling those daydreams on an actual market. For another, I don’t think this cat is going anywhere anytime soon.
Life is messy, and it demands our attention. Once things get back to “normal”, something else happens to upset the status quo. And I need to teach myself to be grateful for these interruptions, for without them, my own life would vanish under the fog of dreams. How else would I come up with anything to write about here?
