Life is either too difficult or too easy.
I was planning to wind down for the day, done with a back to back of toasting myself under the fire of spreadsheets, teams calls and territory trackers, all that tomorrow’s problem finally, maggi masala in my dal rice, laundry tumbling with newly bought fragrance conditioner, bin plastic replaced and all scraps discarded to it.
Of course muse and chaos show up together.
When I am taking out the garlic butter from the fridge, a sentence arrives. In no capacity to write it down, I try to precariously keep it in the “ASAP” folder in my brain. Another tab is tracking the number of whistles made by the pressure cooker. I am unable to delegate cooking in this city and I am starting to realize I might not want to.
Starting to understand that privilege, in fact, does not solve for everything, and you have to find your own equivalent of “tending the tomato garden”, i.e. doing things that connect to something primitive in you and, in the end, that is what keeps you sane.
My brain, now that it has gone on a tangent, decides to stay there.
The reader loses me at this point, while I peel off the bed sheet, hum along to Motion Sickness, and pick up the thread weeks later.
Something felt incomplete, and in the time that passed I know the song by heart, first mouthing it, then loudly singing it, and the sheet is made anew under the sun.
I guess this is why I burn out more often, jumping in and out of ponds because it is all important and it all overwhelms.
I am getting ahead of myself. I am actually calm. Je suis calme!
I am writing this, and it is still more fun whichever side I am on.
Loving the art you're including!