Recursive Words

I woke with a start a little after 6am this morning before waking again a few minutes later. Finally scraping myself out of bed perhaps half an hour later, I wandered downstairs and stood in the shower staring at the wall – wondering how many things we do like automatons every day.

After clearing the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, putting the bins out, and not even thinking about tidying up the hell the lounge has become, I’m now watching the clock tick down to the start of another working day.

The elephant I vaguely referenced recently – that cast a shadow over the entire weekend – is still here. Still not dealt with. It’s mentally exhausting.

The sun is shining outside.

The hedge at the front of the house is growing. I’ll need to cut that soon. The grass in the garden is growing. I’ll need to cut that too.

Everything feels like “something I’ll need to do” at the moment. Something else on top of everything else.

It’s relentless.

I wonder how much of our lives we spend meeting the expectations of others – either known, or unknown? Making ourselves presentable. Making our homes presentable. Making things we do presentable. Why does everything have to be so performative? Who are we actually doing everything for? For ourselves, or for others? And why?

Work starts in half an hour.

A cup of coffee. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go and make a cup of coffee. The world always feels a bit better when accompanied by a cup of coffee.

And maybe message a friend – away from the chaos – and just say good morning. No performance. No expectation. Just good morning. Sometimes it’s enough to know that somebody thought of you. I think so, anyway.