I have fallen into a wee hole of deception. I have focused on a belief that walking for 2 hours each day will keep my stomach flat, or in a way mitigate the damage from the peanut butter cookies. The cookies who are close cohorts with chocolate filled croissants.
Except those hours don’t count for much because it is only movement I get in a day and then I sit and stare. Stare at the blue lines on a page or the blinking cursor on the screen.
Sit there so long the lines begin to wiggle or my mind gets this twitch, a short circuiting of sorts, the needle stuck on a record. I pace between computer and tea kettle. Later to the bedroom to pick up another layer for my chilled still body. All physical corrections of my mental stagnation.
I sit there and think about the blue lines, blue and white paper, why blue and the margin, the red line.
The one red line cutting through all the blue. I can understand how people use the term margin to reference the edges of your life, space around the edges and in that instance the red line would make sense. The margin stops here. Here is the boundary where there is extra and here is where there is work.
But, this is where I fixate, the red line is where you are supposed to start. Something about my mind or my stubborn will says RED line, STOP. Why red to begin? Why not something that tells you where to stop, and shouldn’t that line be red?
Design conflict? Or an excuse for another day with a blank page?