On traps

… vaguely.

The atmosphere in Suite 100 is different to the past week and a half. The Parent Trap is playing, found on Nickelodeon, and the two after-hours housekeepers are enjoying it with lively commentary.

It feels unreal, but I’ll take it. There’s new normals every week in this experience. I know this blog entry will be short, but I have to try anyway; it consists of thoughts on things that are hard to vocalise, or rather, you keep down because you cannot predict the impact they would have should you unleash them for the world — or a specific person — to hear.

It’s what’s known as a transitory period. You’re stuck, and mostly what you can do is wait because sometimes things just aren’t under your control, no matter how you wish them to be. Can you hurt something more by acting, as well-meaning as it might be, than with leaving it well enough alone? Yes. It takes a while for you to learn about it, though, and it gnaws on your mind like an old dog on its favourite bone. Relentless.

So I make plans cautiously and work on moving along with as much action as this weary mind and body can take (the body actually keeping up better in this equation, grateful for the change of the mostly sedentary writer life into a more active version). It’s a Friday tomorrow, and even though not in the work day-sense, I have personal traditions to honour. Did you know reading alone in an Irish pub with a pint of Guinness and a BBQ pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw at your side is actually a perfectly acceptable night to spend an evening? Or any variation of the above, really. Not to be the annoying optimist — it did take a personal struggle to be happy about it when all I wanted was some actual human company. It’s not a mystery that a chosen solitude is different than loneliness. Truth be told I was pissing my pants walking home from it in the middle of the night, too.

This week, Roomie might join me. It’s better than nothing, I sigh, at the risk of sounding both pretentious and overly-demanding. I know already we won’t talk about what I need to discuss to help me clean up the attic, but maybe that’s good for something too. The law of no interference is easier to obey if I don’t have an enabler nearby.

Not that Roomie would even be my enabler or make anything easier on me, in any way. She’s a rough one, school of hard-earned, unapologetic emotional survival, the only flaw is she assumes all of us are. Oh, well. Perhaps it rubs off on me, it couldn’t hurt.

At 10%, the laptop’s flashing a warning of needing to get to sleep — and so do I. I’m unsure whether I feel that it’s barely Thursday evening or that we’re at this part of the week already. I did get a chance to speak to my mom today (well, I called on an impulse and kept her up from sleep because I just had an urge), and she told me on Sunday, they’re having a family barbecue. It was my little brother’s and my father’s birthday this week (yes, I did remember, and promptly texted from a 1AM hot tub session, slightly intoxicated and highly melancholic). Yeah, there was a small pang in my chest. A small mass of loud and nosy relatives sounds almost delightful.

One day at a time. It’s a reminder for everybody, this writer and these readers. Let’s remember to give ourselves credit for navigating the everyday traps — of the mind and of the world.

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