We want it to pass so quickly to get onto the next exciting thing in our lives. Yet we want more of it, clinging desperately to what little we perceive we have. We forget to breath deeply for lack of time to pack everything into.

I like slowing down, I like relaxing, but I enjoy it most when the slow breath is in the midst of madness. It’s then that I feel I’m truly living. How lucky am I to be so busy, so needed, to have to much going on that if I could stretch time or clone myself my life would still be full.

I like the quiet moments. But not when they stretch from one quiet moment into another, another, another. I’ve spent years in quiet moments, punctuated by the fear they would never end, that I would be trapped in them forever.

I have a stack of work on my desk right now (actually 4 stacks), and a list of promises to fulfill in the other part of my life. I used to hesitate to tackle them, worried that once they were done, there’d be nothing left to do. I know better now. I jump in — because as soon as this list begins to shorten, when the pile depletes, more will come in.

I wonder, sometimes, what drives me to such busy-ness, such a need to be productive. I know part of it due to lying down for years, being physically and mentally unable, unwell, to do all the things I dreamed of doing. For the most part, I can do those things now. Nothing’s stopping me but my own apathy, which I still find myself confronting. I refuse to submit to apathy.

Time. The years really are going by faster now. When did that start to happen? When I started spending 1/4 of my life at work? When everything else I wanted to do got shunted to the evenings and weekends? (and lunchtime. I eat while I write this, in between mouthfuls probably chewed too fast, as I have yet another obligation to fulfill during the rest of lunch)

Time. It’s just a concept we’ve come up with to make sense of reality. A moment can last forever. A year gone in a blink.