With each day, I'm more aware of the value and finitude of my time. To be honest, I'm discouraged and frightened, because I know that I have an obligation to myself to take my interests seriously. While I still take time every day to write something small, I haven't felt focused enough to make (or even read) anything remotely substantial in several weeks. And though a couple of weeks is only a snap of the fingers, I still feel an enormous anxiety about the passage of time.
I wish I could write some sort of sweet, immediate resolution to that, but I can't. Even if I could, it would be unfairly inauthentic and performative. Today, I will try to simply sit with these thoughts, rather than overanalyzing them in search of a solution.
While I'm sitting, though, I'll listen to Santigold, and dance modestly in my seat.
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