I make lists. I make lists of my lists. A few days ago, I wrote, "make lists" on one of those lists. I was serious.
Sometimes I wonder if I might be more excited about the idea of getting "organized" than the actual doing-ery of it.
The lists themselves have no real cohesiveness. I saw one crumpled on the bottom of my purse, written on half a sticky-note last week that read: "laundry, manicure, armadillo, falafel". It probably made total sense to me at the time.
More than anything, I like to feel the inky slippery scratch of the pen writing down all of these hypothetical futures. The meals I plan not to burn, the pulled-together look I'll surely accomplish with those particular Anthropologie earrings, the yummy falafel lunch I'll have with the armadillo.
I begin to think my subconscious was trying to tell me to write "make lists". It wanted me to check something off and feel accomplished.