There are days when I feel like I don't *do* anything; everything feels like some form of distraction from the thing, unknown, that I am supposed to be doing. As though I am in a waiting room, reading a little bit of Us Weekly and then a little bit of National Geographic, ignoring the book I brought with me, texting someone, restless and a bit afraid to hear my name be called. But then there are days, that don't look any different at the outset, where everything feels exactly right. I make my bed and think "perfect," and I send a text message that seems perfect, also.
I am interested in conducting a prolonged, contemplative study of why, given similar stimuli, similar circumstances, my feelings toward the substance of my days can vary so widely.