I have this list. It’s a list of all the things I want to do (and accomplish) and I find myself lost and fumbling for a way around it.
My life has become a staccato of efforts, split up and distributed throughout the days, weeks and months. And I think I hate it. I don’t remember the last time I read a book for the sake of reading it. I have to find snippets of time here and there, standing at the bus stop or in between cooking and cleaning and sleeping, just to read. I haven’t understood what not having enough time meant until now.
It’s not that I don’t have the time, I don’t have it in the right places or in the right amounts. I want my time back. And I want it in large, undisturbed chunks that I can dedicate to doing one thing at a time, and doing it with my entire being. Instead, it’s an inconvenience.
I remember, in high school, when I used to spend hours in the darkroom. I would end up not seeing the sun for a whole three hours every Wednesday afternoon and I loved it. I could withdraw into this small room and be content, take a breath; only chemicals, paper and my photographs.
I think I just miss working on something and getting it done. To pour your energy into something and only stop when you feel you want to–it’s a luxury. I’m restless. Because I’m operating on short snippets of time to myself and time to work on things I want, I end up flustered and lost because it’s just not enough.
I wish I didn’t have to pace every minute of every day of my life. I need some freedom. I need to know that I have that control. I need a holiday.