When it's the "in-between..."

...And so what do you do when your heart doesn't have the answers?

You pick up your paint. Your drum. Your dancing shoes. You stop by Einsteins bagels and have flashbacks. You hated eighth grade. You yoga through it when you can get there. You know you should get there more often. You tell your thoughts to "fuck off." You start running even though your ankles hurt and you're wearing the wrong outfit, you try it again tomorrow with the right shorts. You stop setting your alarm. It feels dangerous. It is. You don't care. It's the right choice.
You take more showers than usual, and don't bother with all the rest. You like your face better without all the makeup. You wish society did. You think about how fucked up that is. You're mad for a second. Then you're sad. Then you eat an apple because you see someone else doing it, that's the only time really that you'd want an apple. You think about crunch appeal. You think about marketing. It pisses you off. You think about humans and their "crunch appeal," you wonder if you have it. You care more about the answer to that question than you want to admit, you throw your apple in the trash. You don't find the answer. 

You walk your dog, often, sometimes three or four times and you don't care that you know that means your time is compromised; that you have too much of it or that you're wasting it. You bring your journal to the park but you don't write anything. A journal alone isn't a guarantee for clarity.  You know that, you still bring it and six magazines that you don't read. You stare into the grass and remember Honey I Shrunk the Kids. You think about being short. You look at your phone more than you wanted to, even though you've been saying you're looking at it so much less. You delete the Facebook app for the tenth time. You'll download it again tomorrow when you're being lame. You see a butterfly, it makes you remember. You feel like an asshole. You put it down and bring your empty journal back again on Tuesday.
You call old friends and try to remember the sound of their voice but you hardly can... You hug their new babies and you think it's weird. You remember that one time you guys hid in the bushes together with two forties at midnight, or skipping Classical German choir so you get high on Marion st. You remember your teacher who never thought you'd make it. You tell him to "fuck off," in your head. You do that a lot lately. You think about asking if you can give your old school a presentation on "making it." You won't. It's douchey and you know it. But think you about it anyway. You bury hatchets and fall back into that familiar rhythm with people who knew you when you were small because basically you can read each other's minds, even after all this time. Even though you're so different. You wonder why that is. You wonder if we're supposed to "grow where we're planted." You think about your loyalty. You're glad that you are. Loyal. Except for that one time. You can't think about that anymore, it's time to let that one go. You're pissed for a second at the boyfriends who cheated on you, friends who left you, time you wasted faithfully being the backbone of others people's dreams. You take a deep breath. You're fine with it now. You tell yourself not to feel sorry for yourself because you shouldn't. Because you're laying in the grass and you're fine. 
You drive instead of fly. Because driving means time to think about "time" and time has become your most precious and unforgiving friend. You try a little less to control her. 
You say what you mean, like "that's bullshit." Or, "fuck 'em." Like, "I don't know how," or "I need your help." People find it refreshing. So do you. It isn't always popular. You don't care. You know it'll get you in trouble, you know you won't feel sorry.
You're angry more often. It mostly doesn't help. You know better. But it's mostly justified. Justice becomes a funny thing to you. The irony makes you feel less angry. You laugh alone a lot. You're amused by it. 

So you keep doing this. For awhile.
Not necessarily a year, not necessarily less. But you just keep doing this.
Then one day. You write something.

You get an idea in the shower, it mostly starts thereand you wonder how much you would've written had there been waterproof notebooks. You wonder about the people who have high output rates, you feel exhausted thinking about it. You don't actually want to be them. You read the back of the shampoo bottles. You wonder if you should make shampoo. You think about the flowers in your parents garden and wonder if you should put them into a bottle. You wonder if that's how that shit works. How anything works really. How do you make custom Tarot cards? How do you bind books? How do you get the rights to a play? How much money do you need to invest in a vintage clothing store? How much product should you have first? How do you make kombucha? How are beads made? Can I make them? You'll google it. You come up with a better idea before you get around to it though. You won't google that. You trust the idea will stick and it does. This idea changes you. Not drastically, just enough to brush your hair and dabble in trust again; you try a new thing. Maybe a food. Maybe a person. Maybe a concept. You start trusting a bit more after that; not drastically, but enough to take the call. Your trust builds. Life feels more friendly. You aren't pissed off at cheesy custom license plates and people that confuse "your," with "you're." You're still angry sometimes. It's still justified. But you go on anyway. You pick and choose your battles and you find there are less battles to choose from. Maybe because you care less, maybe because you care more about things that don't make you feel like you're battling? You don't try to figure it out. You go with the flow. You imagine what it's like to be a person that does. You think you're doing it right. You see a funny vision of yourself on a raft in the river, it instantly stresses you out. You go on anyway. You think about Go-pro and nature photographers. You plan a trip to a river. You don't use a Go-pro and you don't blog about it, even though you said you would. You wonder if you're missing your calling or not doing things you're supposed to be doing because you didn't do them. You wonder if you can accidentally not attend your fate. You're stressed now. You don't have the answer. 

You keep trying and mind a little less that things aren't always fair, because sometimes they are. Sometimes you're surprised. Sometimes things are more than magical, they're supreme. Sometimes the right things take some time to show up and you're supposed to just sit there and toil for awhile; because it makes you appreciate it all more. And then you're back. And you walk your dog, you shower again, you moisturize, you make that one meal with the chicken more often than you could if you were willing to be more creative, it you had more condiments, but it's okay. You're okay. You wonder about the people who always change the recipe, who never leave dirty dishes out overnight, who work out even when they're hung over, who write the meal plan on a chalkboard in a kitchen, who can use a chalkboard in the first place, who don't resent making spreadsheets, who believe in a "five year plan." You hug them in your head. You make something fancy on Wednesday.  You get courage on Friday.  You make a two month plan. You change your mind. You don't feel as sorry about it. Something happens that shows you it was the right thing to do. You're proud that you're flexible. You're glad your instinct and your heart sometimes trumps your mind, because your mind can be a real bitch. You know your capriciousness makes people nuts. You don't care. You're not "people," you're just "you," and they're just "them," and that's all groovy in your world. You love the word groovy. You say it un-ironically and often. People don't get it. But again, you're not "people." You wait it out and there's a lot of waiting. You start not minding so much. You're still the same, even when you don't feel like it. You write something in your journal on Tuesday. You left your phone in the car. It's better that way. You start to know the things that are better left; in the car, unsaid, without regret and intentionally. Leaving things applies to so much. You start applying it. You realize there's answers there. A call comes for the second time, you take it. You feel a little lighter. Then an idea comes, then another, then a fourth, a fifth, too many really. But you store them. You start on a few. You become more patient. You realize there's answers there; in patience, in listening, in the in between you created. And then it's Tuesday again and you're fine. Your life isn't different, you don't have the money you need for that house that you want to raise babies in, you don't have somewhere to go that has your name on the; door, mic stand, placard, table card. You don't have a routine that you're super proud of or that makes much sense, but you're okay. You're open. You're wide the fuck open and that's more than most people can say with some certainty. You realize that "open," means trust and you realize that trust means letting go and you realize that letting go means the "answers," aren't all that important, anyhow. You breathe. You exhale, you're good. In fact, you're more than that. You're just right.