There seems to be no shortage of things to do. The list of things to do seems to continuously grow and at an increasing rate while the time to do it all seems to diminish at a frustratingly rapid speed. I know that no one will read this blog, but I can imagine no other mundane task that helps me to re-focus and undo some of the stress that has wrapped its fingers around my life.

Stress. Why is it so hard to live a stress-free life? I do not like stress. It is rarely alone. Always accompanied by a close friend or distant cousin (like exhaustion, sleepiness, increased work load, sickness, etc.). But, even though I feel more stressed, I have never been happier. The undiluted sensations of life pile on with my increasing age and I feel more. I see more. I smell more. I hear more. It all seems familiar. Bland.

I like to write. I love to read. I have read and written today (for liesure) for the first time in several years. It's an oasis. I stumble upon it once in a while and then leave it, forgetting it alltogether as I carry on. Life does not stop. Niether do I. I have dreams, plans, visions. I want to do so much and have so little time.

Time. Time is not finite. Niether is it infinate. It is more like a rubber band. It has no beginning or end, yet can be stretched and pulled in odd, obtuse ways. It is not constant. Splayed against my own skewed perception, time does not exist in the realm of reason and logic. It merely exists.

Good morning world. Thank you for not taking a break.

AC