Wasted. Another day gone. Another day filled with sorrow instead of joy. Anxiety instead of comfort. Why? For nothing. Another day lost to sweating the small stuff.
Part of me is self aware. Part of me knows I’m wasting so much time. I will not die wishing I had planned better meals. Well maybe I will depending on what I die from, but still, I probably won’t. I won’t wish my house was cleaner. I won’t wish I was more organized. Again, maybe I will, maybe I’ll die being angst ridden about whatever mess I’m leaving behind, but I hope not.
I think I will be upset that I didn’t leave more pictures. More memories of great times. More feelings of love. I think I’ll worry that I’m leaving my family woefully unprepared for life. I think I’ll worry that I will be woefully unprepared for whatever it is that comes next. I wasting time. Time is precious. Time is the greatest gift and my most finite resource and I’m wasting it.
But I can’t help it. I’m trying. I really am. But I’m wasting it. Why can’t the joy just flow? Why can’t I just take comfort as it comes? Why can’t I just use whatever time I’ve got wisely? Why?