Fork in the Road

I am a creature of habit. I always put my left shoe on before my right. When I come to a fork in the road, my tendency is to be logical. I have to fight that because there are many, many forks in my road and if I always turn in the same direction I will end up going in one big circle and I will never make any mistakes and if I never make any mistakes how am I going to learn anything new. This write wants to be a poem but it is too early for poetry. I haven't had my coffee yet. Or brushed my teeth. Or decided what I am going to wear today. High 79 degrees. Chance of rain this morning. A motor whirrrs outside my window and if there are birds I don't hear them. I write, wrapped in a green bath sheet. Fork in the road. Choice. I could finish this write. Send it. Get dressed and walk up the hall to the sunny room where Pat, Stephanie, Cora, Inge, Carren, Barbara, Diane, Bunny, Ann and I gather each morning to read our writing to each other. Or I could stay here in my room and write. Or I could get back into bed and fall back to sleep listening to the whirring until it becomes a waterfall or an ocean and I dream I am a mermaid who has forgotten how to play the piano, or I could dress quickly and hurry over to Case Center and put my name on the list for tonight's open readings. As I delay, my choices disappear. And, as usual, I will do the logical thing. The safe thing. The comfortable thing. Or will I?