I walk toward the building. My shoes clop, clop, clop on the empty sidewalk. They grow heavy.
This is not where I want to be.
This is not what I want to do.
The task ahead frightens me and my shoes fill with dread. They are lead shoes. Cement shoes. I could drown in my hesitation. Lose my way. Fail in my task.
My legs are heavy. Retreat whispers behind me, a compelling call. Should I turn, I could run away as on air, scampering like a rabbit back to its hole.
Inertia is a weight on my chest. My breath is short. My feet are clay. I stop. I close my eyes and connect with the child I was. Wise child. Test, dental appointment, scolding. Back then, I knew that looking just past the thing would get me through it. I'd visualize handing my paper in, closing a door behind me, walking away. After. After.
Look ahead, just a little, silly grown-up. The girl sends a message to the woman.
Message received. This is time travel.
My task matters. Others count on my success. Should I fail, I'd rather it not be because I failed to try. Every plodding step leads me to putting this task behind me. I move not toward the task but toward the moment beyond it. My shoes are made of leather. They pinch a little, but they take me to where I want to be.
I wrote this a few days ago. I know from your earlier comments that you're familiar with the concept. I hope it resonates true. I hope it puts one more tool at your disposal, or reminds you that you have it, this looking ahead, tucked away somewhere.
And I hope your Wednesday is good. Let me know what you discover today. Out there.