I finally have a moment to write and the words don’t come. And it’s not because I can’t write—because there’s always something to say—but it’s the fact that I’ve been running so fast I can hardly catch up. And now that I have the ‘right’ moment, I’m sifting through my inbox, listening to the radio, looking out the window, anything and everything else because it never feels like there’s enough time.
Time. Time feels obsolete lately. Like it’s running away. Like it’s slipping through my fingers and I’m a child reaching for a flying kite, trying desperately to hold on.
This weekend I stood by my best friend’s side as she exchanged vows with the man she loves. I watched people dance, and laugh, and take picture after picture on a miniature Polaroid camera with big smiles stretched across their faces. And I couldn’t help but have this bittersweet feeling in my chest. Because everything around me was so beautiful, but strangely, so fleeting.
Soon the new couple would kiss. Soon the night would be over. Soon I would board a plane, fly back across the country, fall into my own habits and patterns again. Soon, those friends and family members would return to their lives, clinging only to memories. Soon that present moment, so fragile, so perfect, would pass. And I didn’t want it to be over.
The details of the flowers, the smell of the freshly churned dirt fields, the softness of my friend’s palm pressed against mine, the perfect curl of her hair—I didn’t want any of that to fade. But isn’t that how all things are? Beautiful and temporary? Remembered, but simultaneously lost to time?
Time has been heavy on my heart lately. I want more. I want more time to write. More time to create. More time to sleep, to laugh, to cook dinner, to sit and do nothing. I want more time to spend with family and friends I no longer live by. I want more time to enjoy without feeling rushed to the next moment. I want more time, more time, more time.
And I hate this feeling, this love-hate. I love the passion, the natural adrenaline running through my veins. I love the way I feel driven to do more and more and more, even if it’s exhausting. Yet, I hate it too. I hate running, reaching, pushing until there’s no strength left in me. I hate being so desperate to get somewhere that I forget all of this life is fleeting anyways.
The moments I have, the people I love, even my own soul and skin—all temporary. And so why am I wishing for more, running on empty when I could be at peace, here, even in the craziness?
I don’t want to slow down, and I won’t. But I refuse to live my life on fumes.
Maybe it’s not about wishing for more time, though, but about grabbing what I can from each moment I face. Not about feeling like I’m always behind, but celebrating the spaces I have left to fill, the minutes I still have to live, to love, to create, to care, to build something, even in my imperfection.
Right now I am fingers to the keyboard, trying to make sense of the wild thoughts in my head. Perhaps there is beauty to be found and remembered in this fleeting. Perhaps where I am, right now, in this chaos and change is fleeting, too. Perhaps I must just hold on and let the truths come as they will, a reminder that despite it all, I will continue. Perhaps these words will write themselves.