I'm losing years. Months. Days. Still losing them to inaction. I'm moving so fast I'm standing still.
I do too much, people say. I'm so busy. I need a hobby. Three projects, I say. I have five right now, but what of that? What does it matter if I'm not moving forward?
It feeds me, my friend says. All ways but intimately.
He's right. For all I try to say I don't care, I don't want, I don't need... It's not true. I got used to having, whatever that was. But I also know that I... Or do I know? How many times have I heard that I needed to be kind and understanding of someone who didn't deserve it? Why do I still believe that I'm the problem? That if I had only been good enough or whatever else I wasn't, that I wouldn't have caused so many problems.
I have so much to learn of love.
Work. Work in the meanwhile. To fulfill expectations and to be the things I can be. To fill the days as best I can with action, if not meaning. To pretend I'm making progress, to run while standing still.
I've lost time, forgotten it spun by. For someone as afraid of death and drunkenness as I am, I've got gaps where I can't recall one thing from the next. So now I fill up on experience. I try.
