Some things are impossible but you do them anyway: calling the car dealership to set up an appointment for servicing; making school lunches; tidying the shoes on the front porch AGAIN. There is no explanation for why these things are impossible and walking five miles uphill and writing a novel and digging out the vegetable patch are not.
(You think this is maybe a good analogy for life, that sometimes the simplest things are harder to do than the hard things, which turn out to be simple.) You would embroider that on something if finding the time for needlecrafts wasn't also impossible.
Analogy or analogue?
You can never keep those two words straight in your mind. There are lots of examples of words you confuse, which is shameful, as words are your business. You can't think of any right now, but you know there is more than one example. There must be.
Getting your taxes ready is also impossible.
As is packing.
There is a pain in your neck when you look to the left.
There is also some sort of lump in your jaw that crackles when you open your mouth very wide. You are sure that someone will walk by the window and see you opening and shutting your mouth, to re-create the crackle, and think you've gone mad.
Maybe you have.
Probably not though.
You don't actually have time for madness.
Also, something is going on in your stomach that is either the flu or food poisoning.
Calling the doctor is one of those things that is too much trouble so instead you spend valuable time imagining a future when your stomach does not repeatedly reject the toast that you gently feed it and your jaw doesn't crackle and you can look to the left with impunity. You consider calling this "meditation" but it can't possibly count, because at the same time you are writing a blog post.
And opening and closing your mouth. The fish on the counter is staring at you approvingly. He is probably assuming that you are simply communicating with him.
Actually, you aren't.
You are writing.
You are thinking obsessively about your novel and about how you can call the fire department to ask how to clean up gasoline splashed on a building foundation without sounding like an arsonist who should be put on some sort of Arson Alert list.
The dog is at the groomers.
Writing when the dog is not lying by your feet is also impossible. You keep getting up and looking around, like something is missing, which is fitting, because something IS missing: the dog. You hadn't realized how important she was to your process.
And because you hate writers who use the word "process", you are now required to hate yourself, which is also impossible.
Almost as impossible as not hating yourself.
Do six impossible things before breakfast, The White Queen said.
But you already had breakfast, so it's too late for that.