Atomic Habits and a New Poem

I’ve always been one to shun self-help and related books. I have always naively thrust them aside as full of “the obvious.” While I still feel like self-help books are compiled of “obvious” things to do, sometimes we need someone to remind us of those things we should be doing to keep ourselves in healthy habits and moving forward. This isn’t a bad thing. Whether it be a much needed conversation with a good friend or using the tools an author has put together, sometimes we just really need a framework to help us move along, reflect on yourselves and habits honestly, and make meaningful small changes that build to larger ones.

For me, I have found Atomic Habits to be a great approach to help me think through and reframe my habits in order to become more of the person I want to be. There are a ton of similar books out there, and I think it is all about finding the best one for your personality. For me James Clear’s analytical approach and “equations” for thinking really meld with how I approach the world.

Writing is one of the big things I want to do more, but self sabotage by avoiding for long periods of time. At the end of the day, if I strip everything away, I am a writer. Writing is my art medium and the more I push it away and avoid comforting the emotional side of me that drives the creation of poetry, the more dull and greyed out I feel. Like a hollow silhouette — if that even makes any sense.

Along that vein, however, I did manage to write another poem recently. I actually really like it. Which is great, because I am really growing weary of living in a self-made, constant state of self-deprecation.

Days are darker in my head
where I exist 
as a whisper of rain
seeking a connection 
to something tangible.

But 
there is no hearth to warm my soul,
no chain of sacred kin
whose fire burns through the night
to hold at bay the terrible dream
that makes me shiver until dawn.

In it I am a nameless face,
and Time has won.

I wrap myself in 
thin fleece armour
and continue marching on.
At this point my only fear
is when I'm dead my memories 
will be strewn across the sun,
to be the forgettable one.