I love To Do lists, and I’ve kept a desk diary since I was eight years old. I think it’s one of the more compulsive sides of my INTJ nature, but it also serves the very practical purpose of helping me accomplish my goals. It just makes me want to do more.
Gym? Check. Laundry? Check. Book query? Check. Blog? Working on it.
I’ve had too many things on my list lately, which initially made me very frustrated. I like the satisfaction of closing out a week or even month with an entire list completed. But life has had other ideas, the result of which has been a large and ongoing list of longer-ranging goals.
After several weeks of frankly being entirely ticked off, it occurred to me that these longer items were the result of two primary things: A full life and bigger dreams.
I have a good career that keeps me busy. I have words in my heart that constantly need put on paper. I have a gym to go to, a venture that is giving me immense satisfaction, a full travel schedule, beautiful fur babies, family to see, and dreams to soak in, soak up, and realize.
So, while I still love my desk diary, it’s no longer my leader, but rather a complement to my life. A friend who reminds me that even though life isn’t always what I think it should be or easy or even fun, it is so very worth it.
NaBloWriMo Day 2? … Check. (Kidding! Sort of.)
I am tired of thinking about you. Feeling about you. Of waking up in a cold sweat, broken because the dream wasn’t true. Broken because it all comes crashing back to me — the way you broke my heart and stole so many pieces of me.
Everyone says time is the great healer, but it is also the great reminder. This is the day we did this. This is the day we did that. The fucking calendar won’t let me escape you even when my mind begs.
I accept the mistake. I accept it repeatedly. I accept it and blame myself and tell myself I should have been better. And then I am angry, because your behavior has made me spiral into phases of self-loathing.
Who do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you are?
It’s the hustle and bustle at the departures drop off point.
The moment I show my passport.
It’s the never-ending queue, the overpriced shops, and uncomfortable seat I curl into whilst waiting at the gate.
It’s handing my ticket to the check-in agent, the breeze I feel as I make my way down the long corridor, the sardine seating, and the click of the belt across my lap.
It is the high of travel I can never. get. enough. of.
I want my feet to wander across new and old ground, my eyes to marvel at a thousand cityscapes, and my heart to quicken — and stop — at a million rich sunsets.
My home is everywhere and nowhere at all.
I wander, I look, I live, I learn.
I travel for the moments, the memories, the high.