A morning unlike any other. A morning just like any other.
Slanting light. And old stubborn sky. Oh, so stubborn. Birds restless and leaves rustling.
A cat lounges outside my door, startling from slumber as I step outside. I pause, wondering whether to offer love or its pale ghost called affection. The cat sniffs at my fingers.
I pause, and then move away. He watches me. I exhale the stale breath of yesterday and try to breathe this old day, stubborn in its memories and rigid in its beliefs.
Beliefs that swarm, hazy like dandelions floating in summer, resting lightly. “You aren’t enough.” “You don’t know a thing.” “You will waste this day too.” “You are no writer.” “You have failed.”
And the other beliefs, too, swirling softer than the falling leaves of the tabebuia. “You can do this.” “You don’t have to know everything.” “You haven’t failed; merely gained experience.” “You are alive, in all the confusion, chaos, and confounding abysmal abyss of life.”
Think. Walk. Your feet move in their own time. Your mind in another.
It was just a 10-minute walk.
Why does it feel like a lifetime? I ask the cat, still a quiet slumber on the steps.
Why do our days feel like lifetimes? The cat still doesn’t answer. But he stretches, one languid paw resting inelegantly on the railing.
That’s life. Sometimes, there are no answers.