There are some days where nothing goes right. Where work piles up like paper stalagmites on my desk and I can’t catch up. Where my mouse dies and the TV pixelates on channel 6 so I can’t watch NCIS. Where I can’t win.
Where everything either stings or hurts or aches, and I trip over my own feet. Where movement is slow and clumsy as swimming in molasses. Where I can’t think straight, and two plus two no longer comes out four. Where I just want to go back to bed.
Is it a cycle? A curse? Is it cosmic? Do I do it to myself?
What does it mean when someone says they’re having a bad day? What did that day ever do to them? I’ve learned it’s never too late to begin the day over again, but sometimes that isn’t enough. The molasses feet and muddling brain persist.
I lie on the couch, prisoner of my own racing mind. I try to slow it down, discard the wayward thoughts, one at a time, until nothing remains but the cat curled up beside me. Then, and only then, can I look to tomorrow.