The Real Reality of Gravity
On breaking up with my smartphone. Or, trying to.
It’s early morning, quiet. I’m sitting on my wooden stool, the one I discovered in the dilapidated shed behind the cabin we had snuggled into once the big house had been sold. I’m remembering the desk I’m at, too, from that time. It is a tall and well worn wooden table; we used it as a narrow countertop in the kitchen, tripling our usable work space. I sit here sometimes, before the day breaks, curious.
Curious about what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. Who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. What priorities of the day are truly priorities, and which of the seven massive items on that list could I realistically get even 45 minutes worth of movement on. Sometimes, I am encouraged. I consider my basket of filled art journals or my library of read and studied books. Other times, all I see before me is a never ending horizon line that moves like a mirage with every small step I take.
But then, instead of contemplating such things, I avoid the whole matter and delve i…