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 shop.

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 eat.

I daydream.

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.