Pieces of My Day

 

            Life is a whole, but we divvy it up all the time. Some weeks are whole, a continuous stream, while others are cut so thin they resemble a flip book, flashes of images too brief to recognize. Lately my days have felt too defined. I know where to go, when I’ll be back, and when I’m not on the clock I have a list, renewed each week, of things to get done before time runs out. I know what time I’ll sleep and when I must wake up. I eat because if I don’t now I can’t later.

            There are far too few times when time doesn’t matter, when time means “now” and “later”, not hair fine lines defining the smallest of changes. There’s still work to be done and it will get done, but one thing at a time, and one gets done before another. And if not today, maybe tomorrow, so let it go, put it aside for today, and don’t give it a second thought. Neither the tools nor the field will move on you. Better to breath and clear your head, than bash it open and pluck the treasure out after cutting your mind’s knots apart.

            But time keeps moving, and we’re too afraid it will beat us, so on we march, without time to spare to ask why, or let the dust settle and see where we are. We’re told when to sleep, and when to rise, and not to wonder why, only to worry about when and how.