Sway enough into each day and find yourself automated – to where you’re blind to the cheerios poured along the milk to follow. Only then so it may be reasonable to take inventory when you can’t see anything anymore. One can render a day meaningless through inane activities, but also through not realizing there’s a day anymore. Waking to sleep. Funny how it works; how easy it is to get numb to most things.
Mindfulness is often advertised as a ready-made solution for most ails. Most specifically marketed toward those miserable. A get-out-of-misery card though readily dismissible, readily deigned as a banal response toward any real suffering. “Mindfulness” as the word, when advised, feels almost condescending: did one not have any mind at all before then? It sure requires a mind to get through these piled tasks and stirring from listlessness. How would more of it make one serene, or contour these tasks any differently than this real reality?
Maybe the mindful marketers and sleazers would be best fitted with a rebrand: fashion it all as a portal to the muses hiding from you. To promise that, perhaps, you could be entranced perpetually. Maybe assuage that however the day proceeds you’ll find endless rest. Rejuvenate from second-to-second – could they use the term HoTs to get chummy with the new generation? Most of these mindfulness sellers seem to be locked a neverending 70s-80s – leading you into the land of saturated flower skirts.
Oh, maybe instead it’s better to ban the word altogether.