Wednesday morning. Torn between writing (as a good writer-wannabe should be doing), or cleaning the house (as a good mom should be doing), or just keep reading whatever it is I'm reading (as a good-for-nothing person should be doing early in the beginning of the day).
I'm torn between choices.
Choices, choices, choices.
I'm never one to make choices. What's with all the Libra sign and a condition of acute procrastinator. Too many choices to make, nothing seems to be better _or worse_ than the others, and then it gets oh so confusing so better leave it at that and think about it later; when my head is clearer, or when there's no sun outside threatening to rise and glare its way up to the morning hours fiercely (letting everyone knows that the morning is rolling and the time is ticking).
Time does tick louder after the sun rises, don't you think?'
I suppose the hands of time are a bit like plants. Feeding from sun lights, growing firmer and sharper with every bit of light it consume, leaving no room for arguments from those who still have doubt about time's power to move everything forward.
Arguments from people like me, who can't make choices.