Whiteboard

I lack object and idea permanence; it could be the trauma; it could be a million other neuro-spicy diagnoses. I try not to dwell on why; I turn my focus to management; I keep myself moving forward. Journals sit unopened; lined notebooks stack in silence; their closed covers trap ideas in the dark where I can’t reach them. It must stay visible; it must stay present; it must remain in front of my face at all times.

I force myself to face what I’ve left to rot; the closet bursts at its seams; it waits for me to finally open it. I forget what’s inside; I could use it; I could burn it; I could make it matter. The whiteboard has stayed constant since the divorce; the dreams I write upon it continue to grow; the goals I name upon it continue to come true. It is the one way I can focus my scattered thoughts; the one way I can turn them toward creativity; the one way I can keep them from sitting in my head as a groan.

Am I bad; am I mad; am I wise.