Clarissa's diary sat atop an inherited threading quilt draped across her lap. In the top right corner she wrote the following day's date.
i woke this morning rested and charged after the most wonderful dream of my mother. i hadn't realized how much i'd been missing her, and our astral meeting was the reminder i needed to make a call after work. Hearing her voice was wonderful. Listening to her week, the spectacular evolving dramas on her favourite novellas, how she's managing without Dad, a pleasure. i'm looking forward to visiting in a few months. i know there'll be a cheap flight for me- i can feel it. Breakfast was quick, healthy, delicious. Despite the greying weather, i couldn't help but think how beautiful the shades above were... Her pen scratched onwards, writing about the many wonders that may fill her day, no matter how mundane. Warm feelings blanketed everything. The positive, and grounding emotions predicted were more crucial than any events that built the entries. Repetition was of no concern. Almost daily Clarissa took time to ink how refreshing the first glass of water in the morning was, how good the peeks of sun felt on her skin, how patient and appreciated she felt at work. In tonight's entry, between sentences of adoration and praise of various coworkers, were little irrelevant pleasantries she felt grateful for. The rich, velvety office coffee, gorgeous morning playlists, how well curated work memos had become, the adorable jokes her team lead made to start each morning meeting. She noted how well the progress on her projects were received during tomorrow's monthly review, an annual event she used to dread, and how easy traffic was getting home.
The fictitious record was as common a practice for Clarissa as a nun's nightly prayers. Tired of lamenting the aches of the day to the page, and the stress of capturing each detail of the moments she lived, Clarissa had developed the new strategy less than year ago- and it was working.
Like most epiphanies it snuck in unnoticed at first. Curtained behind frustration, in the midst of battling through her daily pages. Loathe as she was to admit it, her therapist had been right regarding the power of journaling. Though it took a fair amount of tweaking, and a lot longer than expected for the benefits to arrive. At first there had only been marginal comfort. In midst of her sentencing it dawned on her that the daily efforts were completely submerged and saturated in disappointment. Of herself, as much as others. That her time spent scribbling only served to further drown herself in the past.
Leveraging the streamlined momentum behind her realization, Clarissa tossed the old journal and the records of her last year to the trash without a second thought. With a fallswoop she found a spare, nondescript, notepad, crossed out the date, and wrote the future.
As if undammed, the pen strokes came easy. While the dollar store page's aesthetics paled to the gorgeous artisanal diary she'd culled, the soft blue lined pages freed her. Removing any pressure for perfection, poetry, or worth in her sentences. Instead Clarissa could focus on feelings, cross out lines, ramble, and bullet point. Chaotic script served to organize her plans for the following day, her tasks, her to do's, what seemed reasonable, what she hoped for. The process of writing her tomorrows detangled the day's anxieties. Gave her structure, a mission, and unburdened her mind before she attempted sleep. It served in the opposite way her previous journal had. Rather than collecting and catagorizing her hurts, and frustrations, locking them safe so she wouldn't forget, this document looked in the other direction. Thoughts accounted for, she could trust the cheap coiled book to carry her intentions forward, and lead her into a fresh, optimistic day.
Gradually, her life mirrored the spelled words, and fantasies shifted to prophecy. By no means a psychic nor medium, it was not as if Clarissa truly predicted anything. Rather, she gave guidelines for her reactions and emotions, prepared for frictions. It wasn't difficult to guess how the days would unfold. Clarissa always had a general idea of her plans, and enough pattern recognition so she might make educated assumptions of where problems may arise. She knew where she'd be waking up, whether she was working or not, what films she might want to see, what book she was reading, she was able to plan her meals, get her health in line, find structure in the gym, find time for meditation, and strategize how to handle difficulties she might have to face.
...despite the inconvenience, i settled myself. Was shocked with my calm. My meditations are starting to pay off. When i felt myself flare, i observed the emotion, thanked it, let it go, and went back to my breath. It's shocking how easy this is starting to become, and how unphased i felt for the rest of the day because of it. As unpleasant as the conversation was, i didn't carry it, didn't let it bother me, knew it was only temporary, and there were good things to come. i saw a beautiful bird, and focused on that...
Clarissa sketched scenes to arrive to, small daydreams to find and live out.
...i couldn't believe how good that album still is. Somehow better than the thousands of spins in college. Discovering new moments in old songs felt as exciting as the first time. Taking time to walk through the woods, and listen to old favourites boosted my energy enough to tackle my laundry when i got home.
Clarissa had habits. She predicted pleasures, and set a stage to execute them. In both the immediacy of the following day, and the distance of the year to come. Clarissa's hand could coach herself. She knew what was right for her to eat, what wouldn't be, and made efforts to follow. Aided by the pages. As if the words spelt the evening before were watching her, and would take offence should she falter.
And when life refused to go as planned, as it was oft to do, she breathed. Recalibrated, focused on her own behaviour, and the promises of tomorrow. Like the greatest of athletes she learned to own her losses, and focus on the next moment. And when the days completely unraveled, she stretched, went over what she could do better, jotted it in the book, and got ready for the next morning, the next game. She put in the work, found her way back on course, and let the issues wash away. There was no time to be overwhelmed by a bad day, or the world ending feelings she used to nurture when she was focused on the long game.
No matter how the day went, Clarissa never edited the text from the night before. She never looked backwards. She did, however, stop going to therapy. Her healing foretold by her own hand. Promotions came, but more than anything, perspectives changed. Discipline influenced belief, and a new assuredness in herself arrived. She knew things would be better in the morning, they always were.
Clarissa had a plan. Her moods matched the words she spelled.
She wrote the future. She wrote her path, rather than the past. Like a modern sailor she got ahead of the weather, stayed away from storms as best she could. If the skies blackened and turned, she braced her hatches, lashed her sails, and rode onwards. When tough tides came, she responded with her pen. Writing a calm, structured future until she mirrored the person that she wanted to be.
Concerns moved from the back of her mind to a closed book on the bedside table and she'd rest, sleeping sound. Some evenings the ritual took five minutes, others, well over an hour. No matter how long it took, she wrote.
She wrote, and wrote.
The future ever unwritten, but who Clarissa was, her character, was in her hands.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write