I just reorganized my closet, dresser, filed or shredded papers that have been on my desk for months. I’ve got a bag of clothes, shoes, belts and sundry other items ready to take to the local women’s shelter. I’ve folded and tucked away winter sweaters, long-sleeve shirts and corduroy pants and pulled out the summer dresses, shorts and sleeveless tops.
You could say I wasted time today; read the comics, a couple of useless articles in the paper, took the long way round to work, slowed down to watch kids of all ages play sports in the park.
Write a brave poem, my mind says to my shrinking self, who just wants to take a nap. Okay, okay, what is brave and what is not? Let’s discuss.
I’m going to start writing my truth, though I hardly know it, can barely look it in the eye, though I’m terrified of what it will reveal.