The Plane

"I haven't done it yet today," I tell her.

"So just do it," she says. I explain it's not a thing I can do around other people. "That's ridiculous," she tells me. But what does she know?

Habits are difficult, the ones you form yourself. It goes beyond what you want and what's good for you and becomes something so internal. There is not much that must be done save eating and drinking water, and even those needn't be constant. But to put something in your body, it is more than nutrition. It is more than exercise. It is breathing, it is blood, it is the very essence of life.

What does she know? What do I know? Perhaps the plane on which I am operating is faulty, insecure, inadequate. But for now, it is my plane, and it is good, and it keeps me in line. And I will have to think about these things another time, wondering if all of this has been for naught.

She is down the hall, looking at me, drinking. Smiling. And I do not know what to do.