Over the years, I thought I would have accomplished so much more. At 23, I told my grandmother I would be well off by 25. 28 and a week closer to 29 and here I am, chasing my tail, stumbling through the same string of thoughts I had when I was less than a quarter-century old.
My days are split into two modes: disorder and heaven. Both remain a mystery I wrestle to understand. Each day is spent in battle with what I’m told is the proper way to live.
12 am, 1 am, 2, 3. In exchange for sleep, I grind out the minutes, the seconds; caffeine rushing through my blood, momentum blurring in the background.
I have no plan, no road map, only an idea, and a digital watch on my wrist to remind me how much time I have left, and how much time I’ve spent.
For now, I suppose that’s enough. Then again, maybe not.
I guess we’re exactly where we need to be: Collecting debt, patrolling property, pushing produce, hitting publish — somehow still moving; progressing.