Life Under Cellophane
I've been irritable lately. All day long I felt like a panther eager to pounce, crouched on the precipice of some swift violence.
I tried to practice mindfulness. I pressed my heels into the floor and pictured them growing roots. I felt the soft damp warmth of my toes in my tights and the nylon hugging my legs. I straightened my back, folded my hands into my lap, and tried to smile.
Dwelling in the present moment, I know this is a wonderful moment.
But I wasn't dwelling in the present moment. I was dreaming about the next time I could put pen to paper. After four days of making progress on the memoir, I'm impatient to keep going.
Forget these late-night brain dumps. I want to start writing the kind of blog posts that take research and planning. The kind of content that people point to and say, "Have you seen this yet? It's helpful." And if not blog posts, then an article. And if not an article, then I at least want to capture the ideas on paper so I can gaze down at them fondly, like a stamp collector organizing his treasures into albums.
Of course, those stamps aren't meant for circulation. A postmark would mar their perfection. And so they sit under cellophane, gathering dust.
I'm not a stamp collector. I want to send my ideas out in the world. And if they get beat up and bent out of shape along the journey, so be it. Better that than a life under cellophane.