when blood sees blood of its own
it sings to see itself again
it sings to hear the voice it’s known
it sings to recognize the face
Having posted about being harried, I have reduced the number of e-mails in my inbox to fewer than thirty, written a lengthy letter to a long-neglected friend, and successfully tackled some work I’d been procrastinating on. This morning’s first hour was devoted to exercise, and now Suzanne Vega is making me nostalgic. There’s dinner in the oven. Perhaps there’s hope yet?
There are over five hundred e-mails in my inbox. Probably fifty of them need to be answered.
There aren’t enough hours in the day. Utilizing all of them maximally leads to too much stress; underutilizing them saves sanity, but seems to have a detrimental effect on the to-do list.
April-May-June really sucked, personal-time-wise. July is half-over, and I feel like I’m still racing to catch up.
Here’s the thing: I haven’t been slacking. If anything, I haven’t taken enough time to just chill. And still there’s so. much. to do.
Right at the moment, I’m not stressed, which is why I’m able to post it. I’d like to keep blogging, but it takes time, and it seems to take up energy that I should really be putting into keeping calm and methodical about all aspects of my life.
Even given all of the above, I feel myself slowly getting a grip on all of the too-many things that need to be done in order for life to run reasonably smoothly. I guess that’s good, at any rate.
I’m happy. I just wish there were more hours in the day, not least to communicate with you.
