I am guilty of being busy.
I forget to call people. I make simple mistakes. I get anxious. I feel spread thin and obnoxiously obligated.
It’s because I’m busy.
Busy with school. Busy with building a house (and everything that goes along with it.) Busy trying to make a place for myself at a company I genuinely enjoy. Busy with people, places and things – many of which I don’t even want to be busy with. Busy speeding through the Buffet of Life and adding more and more stuff to my plate.
When I “complain” of my busyness, I don’t mean to sound pretentious or important. If anything, I’m confident that I sound like an incapable child with terrible priority management skills.
I’m driven by deep seeded complexes and the urgency to go go go – for what kind of person would I be if I had time to fill with nothingness?
I’d feel guilty. Lost. Soft. Bored.
But when I think about it – maybe after some time, I’d feel calmer. Lighter. More focused.
I’m not unhappy. I’m not ungrateful. I’m not wishing anything away. I’m just tired of going 100 miles an hour every day. I need to learn how to pump the breaks.
This is simply something I’m working on. I’m terribly flawed and I have no answers. This is merely a reflection. Maybe you can relate?