There’s never enough time for anything. I’ve done a million things today, yet I’ve done nothing. There’s a house to clean, screaming kids to temper, a loving husband to hug, hours of work to put in, children to entertain and spend time with, dogs to feed, counters to pick up, passports to apply for, paperwork to organize, furniture to buy, exercise to engage in, medicine to administer, activities to schedule, family members to comfort…
I do a little of all of it and feel utterly unaccomplished because I didn’t get to the one thing that I have to do, that keeps me alive, that maintains my sanity, that brings me fulfillment even if it’s just the kind that makes you less likely to gouge your own eyes out. And now that I can, I feel like those same eyes have rolled back into their sockets. I’m lost to some other world where I feel only slightly real and almost lost like I’ve been living in a tunnel for ten years. Only writing can shake that feeling. Or sometimes taking a walk or getting a drink with friends. But I can’t do either of those things.
So I’ll write my short piece here and hope that it’s enough. The words I write aren’t good enough anyways. They don’t connect together like they should, weave intricate and complicated narratives that make people go, “How the hell did she do that?” There are simply too many diapers for that. Too many people. Too many of me.
I’ll hope that husband doesn’t think I’m completely crazy for having an entire day at home with no specific schedule, wherein I didn’t really even leave the computer or the house, yet I feel like I have nothing to show for myself.
Sometimes I think I was never meant to be satisfied. That I was created to just be miserable all the time, to feel like what I want is always just a few fingertips out of reach.
It’s empty. It’s all empty.