Feels like I have no time for anything lately, and I’m batty because of it. I hate living life on the superficial level, skating through and skimming over. Being consistently late to everything. Consuming at least one meal behind the steering wheel, substituting coffee and B-6 for sleep, watercooler chit-chat for following the news and forming my own opinion, dusting my tbr pile rather than reading novel after lovely novel, jotting story notes and stuffing them into my purse rather than hours-long sessions of deep immersive writing on my laptop.
I feel unsettled, unsatisfied. The more I carve time for writing or other creative pursuits—an early morning session at the coffee shop before work, eating a sandwich at my desk, so I can write on my lunchbreak, ignoring housework or social events in favor of writing—the more I resent only have those few minutes rather than sustained and plentiful hours.
Yeah, professional artists have to clean their houses too, and get up earlier than they’d like, and eat at their desk to shave time for something else. I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it or not resent it.
And, yeah yeah, that’s the wrong way to look the problem. Take some pride in my dedication and consistency concerning my art, right. I’m trying. I have in the past. I’ll find reason to gloat in the future. But right now, I’m a little worn out, and a lot fed up with having to regulate the things that lift my spirit the most to stolen minutes.