Every day becomes a choice.
Each day rests on a series of pivot points; I find the first
one sitting on my chest when I wake up in the morning. That’s when it starts
and I pass through one after another after another after another. When I
blearily blink the room into focus and slap around for the deactivated iPhone I
use for a bedside clock. When I peer at the digital numbers, then look away to
stare off somewhere around the window to ponder when I really, really have to
get up. Repeat this last step several times. Looking at the time again helps, because
sometimes it feels like my body and the objects around me aren’t quite real.
That’s when the first choice happens. The “what kind of day
is this going to be?” sort of choice; except for me, it’s “what kind of life do
I want to live?” And I’m surprised by how complicated the answer is. Not every
time. But sometimes.
A friend reminded me of the balance: the balance between
falling in love with the journey and not losing sight of the goal. It’s like
there’s some goal out there leaving a trail of note pages for me. Every day I
pick up another one and flip it over twice, trying to find a clue or hint. But
there isn’t one. There never is. So what I write on that page becomes my
choice. I can write as much or as little as I want to, but I have to remember
that someday I’ll end up with this pile of pages and that’ll be it. That’ll be
how I chose to represent my potential.
That’s staggering. You know? That’s completely staggering.
Some days I write thousands of words and hate every single
one. But other days I fill up a whole journal and recognize its importance and
its beauty. Some days I care less about the product and just enjoy the process;
who gives a shit if the quality falls short? It’s quality to me. Then there are
those days I write less than a paragraph and I’m convinced those are the best
goddamn words I’ve ever strung together. The next day I’ll write three times
more then cut out half of it.
Every day I write and look at what I’ve compiled so far. And
I realize I need to write more. A lot more.
Because this is the choice. It’s the choice in creating
substance or stopping before the story is finished. And the story may never be
finished. Or it may be cut short before I make my next choice. But each one I do
make will be mine, they will be precious, and they will be lovely. Even the
ones I am most disappointed by.
