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Writing

On The Present.

In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

I cannot seem to toe the line of the present. As I attempt to balance along it, to stand proudly in the place I should belong, I seem like an elephant on a gymnast’s balance beam. I get stuck in the overwhelmingness of constant composure and balance necessary to stay atop the beam of the present, at times I just wish to fall and disregard the consequences. When I do fall, because I want to or just out of simple carelessness, I go tipping into the past one moment and reeling into the future the next. The former makes me sad, the latter hopeful.

Sometimes it feels as if time is hurling by, the future arriving every second, and at other moments it feels as if it could not come sooner. I crave the life I see in pictures and disillusion myself that that is exactly what is awaiting me. I feel as if I am suspended in the future and gripping onto the present. I feel in-between and afraid to commit to either. I know how to achieve–nearly–everything I wish for independently, but I am struggling to discover how I can make them exist side-by-side; how I can have everything all at once. That is the question.

How can I enjoy something without thinking about it? That’s another question. I have many. Maybe that’s the point. To have questions and not demand answers. To have the answers “alight upon you” in all the present moments to come.