Hey Doc (Document),
It’s 05:27 PM, and I have to spend at least five minutes with you. More than five is good, but no less. I got this idea from Darius Foroux’s Make It Happen — he says to journal for at least five minutes. So I turned to you to share these mad moments; it felt easier than a diary. I don’t even know what I want to write today, but here I am, blabbering it all out because procrastinating won’t help. There’s no harm in this; rather, I feel free. The urge to write is strong, yet I’m restless and everything feels gloomy today. A weight has lifted from my shoulders as I poured it out, but part of me still craves something I can’t name: the urge to surrender, to let go, to start again. It hurts, Doc, it hurts, but I’m loving the masterpiece it’s turning into. I love the peace I feel now.
A little more, because five minutes stretched into a breath I want to linger in. I sit a little longer, because one thing about these pockets of time is that they grow if you let them. That craving is not dramatic; it’s a quiet tug under the ribs. There is a small ache there that feels like unfinished sentences; sometimes I trace it with words, sometimes with silence.
There is grief here, for time lost, for expectations that bent rather than broke. And there is gratitude too, strange as it sounds. Grateful for the ache because it means I cared; grateful for the quiet because it gives the ache space to become something. I can rest in this not-knowing, the way soil holds a seed until it learns patience. When I imagine surrender, it feels like the part of me that wants to fold my hands and say, “I can’t carry this on my own,” and then walk away. Maybe surrender isn’t a big act; maybe it’s small, like answering one honest question, deleting one extra worry from my to-do list, forgiving one old mistake in whispers. I imagine saying it out loud, letting it go.
Before I close: Making a little promise here. I will come back. I will give myself five minutes again, or ten, or even a single line of truth. The masterpiece is still wet; it will take its own time to dry. For now, I will breathe, make a cup, and let the next small thing be the first stitch.
— It’s 05:42 PM, and this is enough writing for today. Maybe I’ll visit here again and continue. Or maybe, it’s another Doc, another unfinished masterpiece.
