I see the rest of my life, a vast plain of time stretched before me like cotton sheets before a deep sleep. Open and filled with the dreams of flickering possibility. Now more than ever, I feel the pressure of a life wasted. Each week is now not a stepping stone to the next week, but it’s own contained experience that will never be again. There is nothing to be gained, but the experience of life itself. A life wasted is one spent lusting instead of living. Or perhaps a life wasted is one where there is no dreaming. I do know that life is beginning to accelerate at the pace of a racehorse. I know deeply within me if I don’t take steps to slow it, the acceleration won’t stop until the finish line. A finish line in which there may not be any more races. In fact, it’s not a race at all. Perhaps it is a walk through a meadow and sometimes with a rush of excitement you leap forward, or skip for a few steps. But if I begin to sprint to the edge of the meadow, I will realize there are no other meadows. This is the only one. I want to smell as many roses as I can reach.

Work has become spattered with anxiety in a way that I know is not sustainable. I need a perspective shift or to flee for my life. If this continues I will crumble into something much worse and weaker. If I hate my work I will hate myself and if I hate myself I will hate life. A hatred of life is maybe a hatred of God himself. Of the origin of life and is something to be reviled against at all costs. To maintain a pure spirit may be my most important imperative – To continue to see the silver glow around the clouds.