i’m tired of prosecuting myself

i create the majority, if not all, of my problems.

most of the time i hope to end the day satisfied with myself, knowing i did enough, but those days are few and far between. my to-do list might as well be a code of laws, and i, unfortunately, am always the criminal. and on days where i decide nothing will get done, i become the fugitive on the run from my own unattainable expectations. for instance, i’ve seen writers on here joke about being stressed out by their own self-imposed posting timeline, and i can definitely relate.

the reason behind it all is honourable - i care about doing well, i’m driven. but if i continue living this way i’ll end up driving myself into the ground. and not because i’m overworked, but because of the daily mental gymnastics i do to determine the best and most efficient way to split my time. it’s ironic because i always fall short regardless.

but sometimes there is respite, one or two good days, or a week if i’m lucky. this usually happens epiphanically, where i suddenly remember the gift of presence, of taking things step by step, of trusting my intuition to guide me. like those summer afternoons spent moving slowly, as it is impossible to rush in the heat of bliss. those are the moments where time is simply a construct and i am nothing but a blip in the universe. sounds “woo woo” but it’s true. there’s comfort in realizing that an incomplete to-do list means nothing in the grand scheme of things. on days like that, the weight of useless pressure is replaced by the unmistakable lightness that stems from the gratitude of being alive. of looking closely and witnessing the magic in ordinary life, something i often miss when i’m too busy berating myself for my imperfections.

i’d much prefer that lightness, of course, but it seems i’d need michael singer’s the untethered soul strapped to my brain to sustain it.

i began reading the book a few weeks ago in london, where i spent a couple of weeks working on my music. singer was with me the whole time, particularly in the morning paired with a fresh pot of coffee and a worn journal. it’s safe to say that the high of no longer being high (i decided to quit smoking weed a week prior to leaving, it’s been over a month now, highly recommend), coupled with this newfound philosophy, and the making of some of the best music i’ve made in a while, meant i was in a great headspace. like a bratty kid at a play date, i dreaded going home — they’d have to take me kicking and screaming. for a moment there i was experiencing my twenties as though they were plucked directly from the imagination of my eight year old self. i even had a prince enter the story, though unfortunately he grounded me sternly back to reality, and like sleeping beauty waking up from a dream, reality wasn’t so fabulous. his kiss carried the underlying drone note of sex, unfortunate because the kissing was really quite lovely — but the fantasy was killed by a request to make out in the backseat of his car. there is nothing particularly romantic about tangled limbs, slightly sweaty skin, and pretending you’re comfortable when you’re really not. maybe i’m getting old, but the backseat no longer feels rebellious; it just feels poorly designed.

i’ve been home for a couple of weeks and have slipped into the version of myself i mentioned at the start. my saving grace have been my friends, as always, the current loves of my life.

i exist between two extremes, and two versions of myself: the one at home, and the one abroad. instinctively, i want to make bridging the gap my next mission… another problem to solve, another law to follow. but perhaps i don’t need to become the woman i am elsewhere. perhaps i only need to stop abandoning her every time i come home.