Common thoughts

There is always this weird commonplace I end going back to. Do you know what I mean?

It involves weird trinkets, like a little clown statue that was always determined to make you smile but you never smiled when you'd see it, because it was inanimate, and trying too hard. Or like a weird mirror with trimming that certainly isn't distinguished or aesthetically pleasing, in anyway in particular, but its familiar and you have no clue where you got it, or any of the logo clothing that has been hanging up throughout various closets and found their way all the way from your past until now. They seem to weave between plot points, into characters, and symbols of my story.

I always felt as though I was accountable to my own story, but not necessarily the most accountable.

My mother was always a pack rat and I was always a rebel. When its only politics we don't agree on, all that's left to do is suck it up, or run away from home. Either would make me feel like I'd be missing out on something.

Now when I say it like that the solutions appear simple.

But they never are.

The symbols for me are very much in the physical form, and they remind me of themselves. I'm not sure to see this as an accomplishment. Do I call it peace or complacency?  The question alone proves I have neither, and I feel much more like the symbols, than like myself, or other people. I'm following my own star map I made inside of a shoe box, in which I glued black felt down on the inside. I plotted stars with glitter, covered the shoe box and made two holes; in one I fitted a small flash light, the other to look through. It was a silly thing to do. It was a silly thing to get a blue ribbon for.

My mind racks thoughts by pushing hung up shirts across my closet. I feel each texture and wait for one to feel congruent with the day, not the other way around. Most are lying on the floor at my feet, and I know that's where all the best options are, but I have a strong sense that not doing chores of any kind would be the supreme option. I'll be able to find a way to justify this by lunch.

Practicing the art of laziness is much harder said than done.