She procrastinates

Though we're aren't entirely unpacked or finished painting, I'm happy to say that the house is beginning to feel like home. It snowed this morning, but the ground is bare and the sun is shining as I write. Snow this late is unusual, we're told, but who's to say what's unusual these days; even time doesn't feel right, it runs in fits and starts, stretches and shrinks without warning. But at this moment I feel unusually complacent given the recent move. And though I'm ready to be outside enjoying summer—or even spring—weather, I'm not unhappy with the state I'm in.

This might be because my mind feels perfectly empty. Maybe it's the painting, that after a few hours produces a kind of somnolence. Maybe it's the constant focus on where to put things after filling every nook and cranny in the house—and there aren't many. Maybe it's the routine that is already creeping into our lives or the inertia that grabs you when you're tired. Whatever it is, it has left me feeling blank and unfocused.

The goals I had set for myself before this move seem to recede daily as the compulsion to "get things right first" takes over. I hate working in a mess, and like every writer I'd rather sharpen pencils and clean my desk than put words on paper. And with this complacent, empty mind it's hard to find two words to rub together. It's not that I don't have lists of things to write about, it's that I'm feeling lazy and distracted. But I keep promising myself, one day, one day I'll make this new schedule a habit. One day I'll get those words written, those books read, those curtains hemmed. One day I'll meet all the neighbors and go to all the festivals and hike all the trails. And I'll stretch, and exercise, and meditate. But like Scarlet, I think I'll do it tomorrow. Because, well, because frankly, I'd rather sit and stare at the fire.