Five problems, one tired head

A bill. A letter you haven't opened. Someone you love going through something. A thing that might be nothing and might not. Any one of them alone is an afternoon's work. Pick one up and the other four start shouting. Together they've stopped being problems and turned into weather.

The pile is a different problem from what's inside it, and the pile is what's hurting you. It's a tangle of cords pulled from a drawer. Yank on all of them and the knot only tightens. Your mind can only work on one at a time, even in a good week. The cigarette rented you a little window away from the pile. The pile was always right there when the window closed.

Sort it right now, in three minutes. One thing moves today, the smallest one with an obvious next step, like a call or an email. One thing gets left alone all week, and you name it out loud so it stops asking. Everything else gets an alarm on your phone, like Thursday at ten. Anything with an appointment stops circling.

You'll still make the calls. You just won't carry the whole pile through the night as well. Say the list to God once, in order, then close it like this. That's all of it. Keep it overnight. Sleep is part of the plan. The pile will look the same in the morning. You won't. You'll meet it free, one thing at a time.