Ten Minutes Typing

It’s the first step.
The first 
awkward, 
stumble-y 
step.
Or movement, really.

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Sitting down
In front of you
Thinking of my dreams
Trying to squeeze them onto the screen.
There’s so much at stake.
And yet, who cares?
Who’s going to know
Whether I sit here typing
Or lay there dawdling
In the dark
With my 35th episode of Gilmore Girls
Keeping me company?
They’re real in their make-believe town
Rory with her articles
Lorelai and her inn.
Much more comfortable to watch them chasing their dreams
Than sitting here, wrestling with my own.
Just another
Just one more
They’re only 40 minutes
Something almost actually happened in the last one
And so a life assembles itself
Unconscious
Nulled by the parade of video celebrations and tribulations
Or not
Just ten 
Just ten minutes
In front of you
Writing
Something
Anything, really
Just make it,
Dream-like
Lab-esque
And I can go
That’s my promise.
The only way I lured myself 
Into your clutches.
Ten minutes.
It isn’t enough.
Cuban. Gates. Winfree.
They never stop.
And I barely start.
But then again, 
When will it be?
Enough I mean?
They never made me work harder
The comparisons between Oprah and me
So, I sit here
Writing.
Minute by minute.
Pacing through the seconds.
And now they’re up.
And whew!
And that wasn’t so bad
And perhaps that’s how I’ll do it. 
Carving a life out of 10 minute increments.
As the vast sea of unstructured time
Slowly pours itself 
into blocks 
I can build on.
And maybe next time it’ll be 11.

Photo credit: Pixabay