I’ve become codependent on my to-do lists.

Clinging to the bullet points, pretending they offer some small form of order in the chaos that is to ensue. 

Chaos that is a stack of letters threatening to topple over as they sit and collect dust, and overdue tasks that get highlighted an angry red that result in angry, red emails.

Red like the app, red like my cheeks after I cry, red like the school I want to end up at.

It’s a color I’m becoming sick of, sick of the never-ending tasks that pile up upon me and sick of damp sleeves and tear stains that pool on top of the bags under my eyes that have become a permanent fixture in my life—if you zoom in close enough, they’re present in all the holiday pictures I’ve taken thus far. 

One of my succulents died this week. I can’t tell if they were feeding off of the energy present in my room or if the windowsill was no longer meant to be their home; either way, I find myself completely responsible.

The orange pot now sits empty, no longer full of dirt.

It’s also the hue of the most recent thread of motivation that has captured my attention on Instagram, the same one I posted on my “Close Friends” story in some hope of uplifting others as I try to do the same for myself.

Yellow is the sun. Her feminine presence is one I yearn for, yet she has stepped down from her position as the winter months enroll. This has resulted in a Vitamin D deficiency that results in depression and manifests itself in nightmares. 

And yellow is the cover of the book I’ve recently started—a book I’m three pages into. But due to a chronic wandering brain and my inability to focus, I get distracted by lines of poetry I must pause to type into my Notes app, forever failing to refocus on the text in front of me.

My comfort sweatshirt falls loosely from my frame; it’s green with faded, white lettering, a hand-me-down from an older cousin and matches an acceptance letter I got earlier in the week. It’s the same one I slip over my head night after night before I turn on my comfort show and attempt to fall asleep—New Girl has been my saving grace recently.

Well, New Girl and my kiwi passionfruit candle and my matching green coffee cup that I only drink tea from could be categorized as my saving graces—a snippet of stability. 

Looking in the mirror, making eye contact with myself, I can’t help but feel like I’m staring at a stranger, drowning in a navy sea, trapped under a cerulean sky. Nails painted to match instead of writing scholarship essays and my inability to follow through on any given concept—unfinished rainbows, both metaphorical and structural.  

An open book, forever unfinished, but returned to the library nonetheless, kicking myself I hadn’t started it sooner.