It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
Days sneak by.
And for most of us, that's acceptable. There's nothing wrong with a gray afternoon spent in blankets, or a bright morning spent between trees. Even an evening in front of bad television can be rationalized here and there (or, you know, whenever).
In the face of rain or gusty, cold Sundays, there are a myriad of ways to wrap yourself in time absently spent.
Thumbing through tea packets, praying for jasmine to pop up in the back, I think about what I've done with the day: croissants, coffee, books, lunch, lake, run, write, walk, rest, search. On paper, a productive day. In practice? Less so.
I've spent so many hours over the last few months pouring over the internet and classifieds: a job here, a job there, nothing fruitful. But lately, I'm tired. Sleepy with hustled eyes, cheated promises.
Optimism has been the best gift a mother and father could have possibly passed on with their DNA. And, while the ideal refuses to surface, I'm happy to wade through a difficult stream when the other shore, quietly eroding, lingers ever-so-slightly out of reach.
On a walk this afternoon, a football bounced with Minnehaha Creek. Lost by careless hands or a strong arm, the ball sped down the little river, urgently. Somewhere to go, I suppose. Somewhere to be. A few steps further, dirt path fanning into mud, the ball was caught, trapped in the debris of the river.
The ball will be there for a while; the log won't be budging anytime soon. Perhaps a friend will find it, rescue it from the current, from the cold. Or the log will roll, the river proving too strong for the old, dead, used-to-be tree.
Or the ball will be stuck. Circumstantially complacent. Not giving up, not giving in. Just waiting for a shift in the water.
Perhaps, it won't be so long after all: you never step in the same river twice.