There was a time when my thoughts would format itself as blog posts in my head, and when I had access to an internet-able device I’d let it out to unburden myself. Now I find the time to blog to be quite a bit of luxury, when the list of things to do I go through is mostly just a way to calculate when I can go home and sleep.
My fingers spend just about all day dancing with the letters of a keyboard and reshaping my hand to the contours of a mouse but for all the tap dancing my nails do – they are unable to write the words I want to. More than words, there is so much I’m missing and I was near tears with frustration trying to decide what I can manage to squeeze into very tight patches of free times – the task even more daunting with things I want to do are scattered all over the city which now, taking traffic into consideration, has never seemed so expansive.
With a schedule that forbids me to waste even a breath (my relaxation these days being a quick game of Angry Birds) it’s becoming more and more too clear what are my priorities. It seems I’ve let work take a front seat – who am I kidding, I’ve let jobs and more than 40-hour-weeks peal the gas from behind the steering wheel and things I used to do, used to love to do, only catch a blur of me before all that is left of me in an angry,disappointed black cloud of exhausted steam.
I think, more than anything, I’m afraid of what I’m doing to lose. I don’t want relationships to fade because there was that report that I finished only after I traded it in for sleep. I don’t want to disconnect from friends because if I know one thing, I want to be there when my friend picks what she’ll wear for when she’s getting married. I don’t want to lose on family time because I actually prefer the solace of silence over the post-dinner cleaning up cacophony. I hate that my relationship has been diluted to texts that function as apologetic reminders that love (which is something hard to see,show, or feel) still exists. This race for productivity makes me long for my now fantasy of peanuts, oranges, and sun, with a book in a space that offers respite to me.
Worst of all, of all this chaos and madness is this growing dark mess that says, there are few other options of escape. Escape sounds too harsh. There appears to be few options for change. To find my fingers nestled between pages (did I mention I now have over a dozen books in my possession I’d like to read?). My head wants to lie on a chest that beats and breaths of love for me. I want to slow down and breath, and when completely relaxed, I wish I could just shut down and sleep to the comfort and joy of puppy breath filled glee.