I Would Rather Be In Bed

I wrote half a page worth of a post before deleting it and staring at a blank page for far too long.

It always seems my mind is full to bursting and, at times, it requires far more effort to organize and file away what’s in there for coherences sake than what it’s worth. I almost rather my mind full of cotton and dirt than the actual garbage that floats around up there now. It’s filled with far too many reminders of things I haven’t accomplished, bills I need to pay, appointments I need to schedule and things I have failed at.

It’s full of how fast time is passing these days, how very quickly a year seems to fly by any more. One minute it’s January and I take a nap and then it’s December. It always seems I’ve accomplished nothing in the time between those two months except perfect the art of anxiety and mostly mess up everything else while mentioning to anyone who will listen for exactly three seconds how tired I am.

Time, what an excessively useless measurement. The sun rises and the sun sets. People live and people die. Time passes. All measuring it accomplishes is creating anxiety over how little of it there truly seems to be. Notching numbers over the years about how old we have become and how quickly our children grow as if the creaking of our bodies and the changes of theirs aren’t reminders enough.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

The ticking of an endless clock.

Time goes on, we do not.

Why do we waste so much time worrying about useless things such as meal schedules and how clean our house is and laundry? Because we’ve put a time limit on everything. Imagine, for one minute, if you didn’t know that twenty four hours existed in one day. Or that there were seven days in a week or three hundred and sixty five days in a year. If there was just sunrises and sunsets to measure days. If nothing else mattered. You would just do things as they mattered to you, of your own measured importance. Not as they were defined by some arbitrary measurement that we humans have created.

How much different would life be? How much stress would be relieved if only we weren’t living our lives defined by a clock and instead defining our own lives?

Time, what an odd concept. Necessary, it seems, but also exhausting. Maybe it’s the keeping track, fitting everything in, meeting the deadlines that makes us so tired.

Maybe we need to live a little less by a clock, and a little more by our hearts.

Probably should show up to work on time, they might fire you otherwise. The other stuff though, might be worth a little more free spirit…