Wednesday, May. 07, 2003
I have some pretty self-destructive habits. One of them being that I forget to write while my life is exceptionally busy. Notsomuch forget as I allow all the busy-ness to get in the way.

I don't feel particularly smart right now. I don't feel like a grown-up. I hate that my ego is so easily bruised and that I can't make the world better with words alone.

My short attention span always gets the best of me. My thought process is slow, deliberate and complicated; frustrating but necessary.

Every measurable distance in life has breaks, chapters, sections, is broken down into pieces, if you will, mathematical, physical, chronological, whathaveyou. Time isn't what passes; we do. Time is a conceptual figment of imagination on which we lay blame for the changes in our lives. For every step I take across one of those chapter lines, I find myself at the bottom of a new hill, wondering why, where, how, when, who, what for; blaming time for passing me by. Which direction do I turn now? And I know for as long as I live (as long as anyone lives) that's the way it will be. A relentless series of one indeterminate challenge after another.

The point, should you ask, is to make mine, yours, our lives the best they can be by whatever standards each of us individually decides. That each individual lives on the same planet, in the same country, city, town, village or community, each with a differing set of standards - that is what makes life worth living.

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