I am quiet today; brought down by this sickness, this fever, this cough, this cold. I am thinking about the things undone like the housecleaning, the exercising, the bill paying, and I am exhausted just from imaging the days of playing catch-up. I feel like I drag my feet everywhere I go.
I am bound by the minutes in the day; only 1,440 minutes to live each day. Six hundred minutes are taken up at this desk, ninety minutes are consumed traveling from point a to point b and 420 minutes are spent asleep, in a bed that is all too comfortable. This leaves me 330 minutes to live my life; to eat, to love, to chat, to read. Too many minutes go by where I experience nothing.
This is just the sickness talking.
I wonder sometimes if I should re-enter therapy, or if I’ve taken care of it on my own? I wonder if it would help for someone objective to know my all my secrets, and help me put all the anger to rest? But it is at rest, isn’t it? I was told I wasn’t ready four years ago; am I ready now? Honestly, I feel therapy makes me appear weak. But I’m sure lots of people feel the same way.
This is just the sickness talking.
The grey outside……
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