Changing Tracks

I strive to fill the hours, build a routine, drown out the seconds ticking away. But filling time isn’t living and I want to live

I don’t know when it happened, but as I look out of my window onto the world, I now see myself slowly chugging down a siding whose rails reach an ominous stop, somewhere out of view.

What happened? I used to whizz along, stopping at the odd station to gather up fresh ideas; energized by the textures and colors and barely visible signs of potential growth all around me. When did the points change to send me monotonously chugging towards a dead end? Who pushed the lever?

I used to journey through life, living every moment. I dreamed of marriage and found my bashert. Longed to have children and was blessed with child after child. I took on projects and did my bit, gave where I could, turned out meal after meal, and just managed to win the race against the ever-filling washing basket.

This chugging self feels breathless at the thought of it. “Relax,” it says, “Slow down. Do something for yourself for once. Enjoy life.”