Sometimes I think I will never get anything done. There is lots to be taken care of and it is a given that I will run out of time. Too much. Too many places and too many people and too many things, beautiful and painful and wanting something from you. That may be normal, I think. It may just be February. Too fucking much. Wanting to give back and fully understand everything to the fullest capacity and there is so much to do and see and touch that there is nothing I can do and I end up going to sleep, bone weary from having done nothing.
Oh. Do I sound like I'm on crack?
I am overcome, sometimes, at night by the thought that I will never see anything fully. There are books to be read and places to see and things to taste and try, and mostly people. There are so many people asking to be bathed in light, and there is so much I want to share. I don't think it's February, although I'd like to pin it on that. This new consciousness tells me that there is too much headed this way and I am merely flesh and blood.
I have no way to contain it all.