Calendar

Filling in each square with commitments. Labeling dates with ‘important’ conceptions. Planning with reckless abandon. Penciling in those paramount forget-me-nots.

As the date arrives,  you stare at the box and realize those scribblings were drafted in vain; you’ve single-handedly obliged yourself to yet another task.

Leisure or otherwise, you bow your head and trudge through the responsibility. Perhaps you enjoy the engagement, or maybe you have to fake it; maybe you are gritting your teeth and sweating bullets. Maybe you are waiting in a never-ending line, on the verge of passing out with sheer boredom. Perhaps you’re scared, ecstatic, indifferent, dismal, calm, cool, or callous.

Nonetheless, you are working towards the obvious end-goal: triumphantly crossing off the calendar box with a big, fat, proper “X”.

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Particulars

Allow me the tiny adjustments, the modest changes I make in the name of comfort.
Frivolous as they may seem to you, these differences better the whole, to me.

Be patient with my will to make things how (I think) they ought to be.
It’s with these wills that my character is born, and with their failures that I learn how the world turns.

Remember that I’m delicate; my sensitivities shall always surpass yours.
This lightness warrants me the ability to balance your strength.

Cherish my excitement for silly things.
Because you know it’s this fire that fuels another, greater passion, whatever it may be.

And please, be not dismissive of my cries, however crude and incoherent they are.
It’s with these that I yearn to divulge, and to guide you into understanding.

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yeah, write.

I will write. I will not promise genius, wit, nor poetry. I cannot ensure accuracy or clarity; coherence nor morals. But I am entitled to believe I have something to say, something to tell the world, something trapped inside this confused and frustrated mind that’s eager to get out and worth being written. Even if the fate of these silly odes is only to be read by the very eyes who conceived the letters onto the page, they will have served some sort of quintessential purpose.

With poise, I will write.  With honesty, I’ll purge thoughts. With an aim for dexterity, between my brain, the screen, and my nimble fingers, I will try to harmoniously organize the crossings of my mind.

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