About a thoughts’ SPA

I kick off my shoes.
And tuck my feet into slippers.
I hang up my clothes.
And slip into a cozy robe.
I wipe off the “play makeup” from my face.
Even critically surveying myself in the mirror, I decide that, “in the context of this overall robe moment,” the ‘just born’ stage fits just fine.
I tie my hair into a simple ponytail and, having “dismissed” all devices and tools from duty, I greet my hair with days of rest.

Freed from the daily grind of responsibilities,
it’s time to rest my thoughts.
Well then, my wild ones, I clearly address them:
crawl out of the cramped head of this poor human.
Get comfortable in robes and slippers.
Prepare yourselves to be thoroughly washed in the sauna
and bubbled in the jacuzzi.

I explain to my constantly buzzing, nine-mill-wheel thoughts that I’ve brought them here
to air out, press the “restart” button, and come back “as if newly born.”
For a moment, in that cramped head, they rustle.
But look—
the instant I lie down on the massage table, they start stomping their crazy dance again:
Stomping over undone work.
Snatching at unfinished conversations.
Pinching ideas for photo shoots not fully explored.
Catching unanswered questions.

I lie there in the massage, and as it shifts to the other side, my 24/7 head office finishes sketching a new video idea with a full execution plan.
It notes “immediately actionable” tasks for when I get home.
Laundry, review, check…
Schedules the week’s days.
And “points out” things I mustn’t forget:
Who to call.
Where to jot what down.
What to put where.

I roll off the table and, grateful for the relaxation given to my tense muscles, I want to ask—shouldn’t there be some extra space for these overworked thoughts?
And there, all curled up, giggling in my head even while clutching their bellies:
“The pig wants bananas!” they squeal.
Peace, it seems, is not on the agenda.

I drive home.
With a rested body and a head that somehow feels even heavier from thoughts.
There are so many of them now—I smile.
And, perhaps taking advantage of my body’s weakness, they snuggled closer still.

Later, with time spinning the wheel toward Vilnius, I think:
Maybe heads of multi-tasking, “terribly” work-loving people are like hearts?
Healthy as long as they buzz with ideas?
As long as they itch with unfinished work?
Rustling with “need to do” bullet points.
Buzzing with the feeling that I am needed and important.
BY MANY.

And without that buzzing, rustling, rustling—
my head might be lighter, but
I wonder if it would carry the same feeling
that makes life beautiful.
That makes it so clear.

Mua,
V.