September 15th, 2022On this day in different years

poppysmic

Ganked meme from fauxklore

1. Do you make daily to-do lists? If yes, do you usually successfully clear them? I honestly gave lj's to do list a try, but couldn't make it work for me as a content inspiring module. I abandoned it with the idea that its functionality would be better utilized for development and programming tasks.


2. What is your favourite piece of clothing? Do you have a different favourite for each season? As a rule, I never wear summer clothing during winter, but while the climate is in its average ranges, such as spring time and autumn, depending on the temperatures, I'll wear summer clothing in autumn and winter clothing during spring. I've been wearing sleeveless attire this summer, my favorite being my greeb Harley Davidson shirt with snap buttons.


3. When did you last interview for a job? Did you get it? I haven't interviews in years. Needless to say, the last time was unsuccessful.


4. Teacher or student? Informally, student, because I love learning computer science. Also, teacher, because I've been trying to start up a writing community for screenwriters.


5. What comes to mind when you think of fear? Anger. I fear getting angry because often I get myself into difficult situations resulting from hasty decisions made under the heat of anger.


6. What is your favourite thing to do on a Saturday morning? Sleeping in, lounging around, couch potato-ing


7. Where do you think your road is going? North and south, never west and rarely east.

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birds

not a poem.

if this repository were the only source of artifacts about my life, one might come away with the impression that i'm a rather tortured person. but where is the poem in endless gratitude for sunlight and sidewalks, the continual astonishment of self-authorship, the security of good friends, the comfort of well-established boundaries. how would one wax poetic about how each day starts with optimism and ends with satisfaction.

it's not infinite happiness--that's silly. there is stress and frustration and self-doubt. i'm still alive, after all. but it doesn't define my days like it used to. and it doesn't keep me up at night. a man flipped me off in traffic today, and instead of crying and writing him a letter to soothe myself, i watched his eyes in his rearview mirror and saw the weight of his life coming out in that gesture. this was not about me. this was his poem of torture.

i feel lucky. i feel grateful. if i were superstitious or mystical, i would be building alters to the universe or the great mother. there's no poem in that.