I felt like writing today. I'm not sure why; I think it had something to do with the smells coming off of the warming earth and the sight of the infant grass just raising itself into the lowering sunlight.
I wanted to write; I wanted to create; I wanted to be part of this burgeoning world that's just on the verge of becoming itself again.
And yet I didn't write today. I mean, aside from the writing I'm doing now.
I'm not sure why. I can only think that this is what most of the days of my life are made up of: this desire to grow and become and live fully at my potential, a desire slowly submerged in the mundane ways I spend my time.
I keep thinking that someday I'll get there; I'll be able to live fully at the height of my existence, but the hours spent reading books I have not written myself and the endless minutes spent in languorous perusal of websites and television shows all prove me wrong daily.
There is potential yet though, and I will meet it someday, but I grieve for all of this time that's slipping away unused.
1 comment:
I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel like I spend all day doing the daily necessities, and never get around to goals and dreams (or even hobbies--spring is slipping by, and my little container garden is sorely neglected).
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