Curse You, Biology

Maybe my goal to write every day was “unrealistic.”

I am always writing in my head, whether I’m at work, in the grocery store, jabbing my foot into my break pedal while stopping and going for miles on the highway, talking to my mother about dinner plans, talking to my doctor about lack of circulation to my hands, it goes on and on and on (’cause words are the champions, my friends).

I came home from work yesterday (Saturday, which is my Friday), lit a candle, laid down on my bed, and woke up ten hours later (this is more sleep than I’ve gotten in the last seven days combined) to the heat and aroma of my candle. I’m grateful that I did not burn my house down, but I had intended to respond to some messages and e-mails, do some research into apartments, create some plans for my weekend, etc. before drifting into the land of paralyzed muscles and dreams. But sleep decided that I would semi-restore my mental faculties instead.

With that, I am slowly learning that adulthood is a mighty bit taxing, and my body is not capable of running on positive thinking alone, as it was in high school and college. I seem to biologically depend on sleep now…

So I use the word “maybe” as a set-up. I’ll say “maybe I was wrong about….” or “maybe ____ isn’t what we all thought.” And from there, I am driven to prove that there is no reason to question or wonder.

It is NOT unrealistic that I desire (and expect myself) to write every day. Sleep gave me a giant middle finger last night and broke my writing streak (of a whopping four days), but I have now learned who my main opponent is, and they will not be getting in my way again.

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