Life in Writing

My apartment is a mess. A respectable mess. So I decided to clean it. Because I love cleaning so much, I started with the documents folder on my computer. I don't even remember how I justified it (I think I happened to be sitting at the computer this morning wondering if I could clean anything without moving.) After 5 minutes of looking through my documents folder, I got up, walked out of the room, and went to the gym.

My documents folder has over 1500 files in it. Some are poems. Some are short essays. Some are schoolwork. Some are pieces of writing or sentences or phrases that have no discernible ending. Some are titled, "what the hell is this?" or "a;sdlkfj" or "work on this." Some are from a life so long ago that I hardly recognized my own voice. It was so...young. So happy. So star-eyed. So breakable. In many ways, so much more passionate.

The memories that I started coming across made it clear that I should have just cleaned out my sink, put some dishes away, and started a load of laundry. But instead, I had to just get out and go run.

And I hate running.