I’m a perpetual motion machine. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I need fuel from outside the system of self to feed my frantic behavior. I think I’m trying to convey the fact that I’m forever moving. I rock in my desk chair. I rock in my easy chair while reading. I scurry to the bathroom when my tea has quickly moved through my machine. I make meals in a hurry.
It’s hard to move slowly even in my tiny cottage of a house.
It’s hard to keep my brain from racing.
It’s hard not to race down to the mailbox by the road.
It’s hard to move calmly.
Here are some of the things I do to occupy my dismally short attention span:
I surf the Internet.
I rock in my chair and read.
I walk briskly.
I return items I’ve bought.
I write here in my blog.
I call family or friends.
I count the days to the weekend.
I count the days.
I write poetry.
I wash dishes.
I dust the shelves.
I shake the feather duster outside and watch the dust fly through the sunlight.
I dream of love.
I yearn for romance.
I vacuum the rooms.
I clean the bathroom.
I make the bed.
I brush my teeth.
I mosey down to the library to smell the books and read the newspapers.
I nag my caseworker needlessly.
I try to occupy myself constructively, but I often fail. I remember that the simple things in my day are what really occupies my time. So many days, I forget the small things in the rush to find something to do.