Time Isn’t Meant to Be Filled
We need the space to breathe. On the struggle between doing and being.
Words carry weight when there’s breath in between. A poem shines not shrouded in type, but when sparse like a tree in a desert, stark against the empty, pale sky.
Time doesn’t need to be filled.
A man-made construct, our minds play tricks; we believe we’re missing out, falling back, wasted — if each second isn’t used to move in conformity with the ticking clock.
When our time comes, we may wonder if we did enough.
But what are we really here to do?
Perhaps nothing more than watch time go. Flowers blooming. The rising sun. And notice how it opens us.
Coming from someone constantly listening, reading, watching, typing, my mind says do, but my heart says be.
In the morning I get up and I go, engaging in various pursuits.
I’ve built the pressure like fire beneath a kettle. I feel I’m not living up to my own expectations if I don’t keep up.
I love this shit, but I need to release. We all do.
In the night, in the darkness, I let go of the weight. The day’s been written.
