women of color

Sensory

There are not names or faces for those that I write to. There are eyes on screens. Fingertips reaching.  

The end of my day seems to routinely culminate in exhaustion and aching awareness of each footstep taken. The last moments of active consciousness are typically spent planning the footsteps for tomorrow & the rest of the week. Subtle anxieties swirl in tune with my breath. Am I superficial? Am I manipulative? Am I too eager? Of course, alone here, I muster up the most change-provoking answer I can. Then, I imagine an immediate change in course. 

Today has been incredibly quantitative. 

Numbers exhibit a sense of preciseness. Something sharp and exact. Something that slices your hands as your grip gets right. Today showed me no dull edges. I've stayed engaged to the most of my abilities and that says something. You can't close your eyes when you are at risk of being shredded to pieces.