Sometimes Later Becomes Never

Fuck.

It’s a pit of pure frustration in my chest today.

There is always so much to do but never enough time – or so it seems.

The constant feeling of overwhelm.
The brain fog.
The anxiety and panic.

How do people live like this day-today?
How do people thrive off this busy-ness?
This go-go-go?

It leaves me regularly feeling like a lazy bitch because I can’t seem to hack this pace. This hustle. This craziness.

Even now that my household is growing up and flying the coup.
Even now as the chaos of five little people is now a very mild three medium-sized people.
Even now that our blended family and step-parenting issues are resolving.
Even now that financially we are ok.
Even now that I am more confident and comfortable as me. In this life. With my people. Who are supportive, kind, and caring.

I hate the “busy” and the noise that comes with it. I hate the fog that takes over my brain. The fog and then the angst of that fog that stops me from doing the things I love to do – one of those things being my writing.

Just allowing myself to be here, in my space, where I feel most at home. Writing my thoughts. Writing my worries. Writing my laughter. Scripting my days and being playful and light or sombre and dark and all the colours in between.

Seriously, how long is it going to take for me to realise this is my outlet? This is a necessity. This is now or never for me. Am I waiting for the never? To say to myself, I told you so; I told you that you would never make a living from writing. That it would never amount to anything because it is nothing, and therefore because it is part of you, you are also nothing.

Bullshit.

Life is short. Shorter than a cup of coffee after a restless night. Shorter than the lifespan of a mayfly. Shorter than I would like to believe, and yet day after day goes by, and I still wait. I wait for the time to go by to give me more time – it’s fucking ironic. I wait and make up excuses. I prioritise other things – any “things”. I hold myself back from what I truly want to do. To be. To feel.

It’s like having only one oar in the water. I’m just going round and round in circles. Never getting anywhere but completely bloody exhausted about the lie am I constantly feeding myself.

So, sometimes later becomes never. I will not make this my never.

LD. ||

3 thoughts on “Sometimes Later Becomes Never

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