Sometimes there’s a sign.
Usually there is not.
Either way, I am seldom prepared.
My days are spent in constant doing. Even while sitting or supposedly at rest, the whirling dervish within is whirling.
I awake in the morning exhausted, sure that I have been running to some destination far away, but the memory of the race fades as I enter the waking marathon.
In the end, where is my activity taking me? Stopping is not stagnancy. But what does it mean to stop? Is it even possible in the midst of these voices of responsibility?
But reparations must be made. I can’t always be on the go.
I sit and await the turning of the sign back to slow.