Discomfort and unease at the sight of so many unfinished things. Piles of books, papers, ideas, projects and boxes of activities left unopened.
Comfort with the smell of work and dust, earth and heat rising up from the land. Even the feel of a pulled muscle represents a moment spent in reality.
Discomfort and unease at the acute awareness of the passing of time. The world continues to be, become and do no matter how still I sit. Each little living thing questing after something–an arc of the spent life. It’s not enough to say Amen and tend a garden. The world needs to know that I was here, too–being, becoming and doing.
Excitement over anticipating a package to arrive. No more excitement for the thing after it is opened and revealed. It is known, familiar, like myself and it can sit on a shelf doing whatever it pleases but I will only take it down now and then and worry with it. No book is ever completed.
Like such things as books, I keep myself purposefully unfinished. I refuse to join in anything too important, because all of these life moments have their arcs toward completion and when they are over, what is there to do but sit and think about what you have done? Surely it is better to sit and think about what you might do or might have done, right?
Life will stop unexpectedly. I may be blessed to live until I’ve milked every last strand of telomerase out of the organism, or I might die a sudden, violent death. And then, all of the projects will remain uncompleted, discarded, left for nobody or another lifetime.
The temptation to pause and read the news is so strong. Surely I am missing out on something.
I am not.