It's easy to go through life accepting things at face value without questioning whether they are what they seem. It's a little harder (but not that hard) to take a step back and examine the world at a deeper level, thinking critically about the things we hear and see to uncover the filth and greed and corruption that lies just beneath the shiny surface. It's even harder to apply that critical thinking ability to everything around and about us without bias, without picking and choosing which myths we want to bust. But none of these are that difficult.

What's really hard, I think, is being able to see past all of that. Pointing out the contradictions and the lies and the false beliefs is formulaic once you get the hang of it, but being able to peel off the lie to uncover the dirty truth and still talk about goodness and faith and hope? That's something else. So, the people who impress me aren't the ones who can look at anything and de-construct its meanings or lack of meaning or whatever. The people who impress me are those who recognize the lies and stay happy and kind and gracious, and those who understand that there might not be this great progression in history, this evolution of the human race, and still keep moving forward. How do they do it?

I have forgotten how to write.

For years I climbed this slope, wanting so badly to reach some sort of stupidly unreachable pinnacle. I know there were times when I had spurts of creative energy and leapt up the side of the mountain inspired, renewed, but most of the way I trudged on one small, shaky, miserable step at a time. I hated it. I hated waiting to get better. The only upshot, really, was fixing my gaze straight ahead for months on end hoping that the longer I waited, the better the view would be. And it was better. Each time I lifted my head and took a look around, I was filled to the brim with satisfaction. See how far you've come? These are the marks of progress.

But I'm back at the bottom now, and I can't remember how I got here. I don't know if I lost my footing and fell the whole way down, or if I got tired and turned around. Did I bring myself here?

I'm afraid to look up. Even with my eyes closed, I can see the mountain loom threateningly before me. My knees are scraped and my shins bloody; my arms are covered with insect bites. It's hot. I'm thirsty. I don't want to do this again.

I like fresh starts and undefiled beginnings;
the idea that you will always have
a brand new week,
a brand new month,
a brand new year,
to live the way you've always wanted.

But I never thought of each day as an entity separate from the last. My entire free-thinking life I believed that Mondays set the tone for the whole week and there was no escaping it. If you screw up Monday, your whole week is contaminated from that point on, no matter how perfect the rest of your week might be. And if your Monday is good, no matter how crappy the next few days might be, the purity of the week as a whole is still salvageable.

A downside to this line of thinking:
Because Mondays are usually rough, I rarely have a good week.

My resolution?
I gave Monday the boot, and invited Sunday to sit in the good chair instead. Unfortunately, I'll have to wait til Sunday (at the earliest) to see just how big an impact this new arrangement will have on my eager psyche, thirsty and impatient for some kind of substantiating, life-altering change.