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Growing up, I realised that I will be investing a considerable amount of my time in organisation - external and internal. This means making lists -- whether it is of the groceries my mother needs or of the things I must learn or accomplish before any landmark age. I have come to rely so much on this exercise, that I find myself entirely disoriented without it.

I make these lists, in the hope that committing these words to paper will shape those ambitious plans into existence. I've had the courage to think those things, so certainly I will have the perseverance to see them done. And that, will be my deliverance.

Except that it isn't.

Soon enough, the focus shifts from the doing to the planning. Because if I did everything I hoped, wanted and planned, then what would I have left? Something is better than nothing, even if that something is on a to-do list in my notebook, no? And that's what this post is about -- the rigmarole of planning and prioritizing.


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Hard bound notebooks, with attractive covers,
fussed over, to reveal or represent
a lesser known side.

Black and blue, red or green,
inks of various hues,
for distinction or legibility.

Made of cloth, jute, paper or plastic,
Binders, folders and zippers,
To collate and separate.

Sundry other accessories,
chosen with care,
with purpose or under temptation.

***

Underneath old things, tucked away safely,
Beyond the reach of a stray scribble,
Untouched leaves of those coveted covers.

Affably lent or lost altogether,
The nibs of wood, metal or plastic,
Unwritten, unused.

A brief period of order
alphabetically and chronologically,
and soon, ennui and chaos.

**

A note here, a reminder there,
or an almost-passing thought,
quickly inked before being absorbed.

Side-by-side, balancing one another
my own House of Cards,
these lists, to-do and to-be.

*

Pile them up, stack 'em away
Promises better forgotten,
Than unkept or broken.