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When I’m anxious about wasting my life, I tend to waste more of it — find distraction from my fear of distraction. Distraction is a cyclone; we’re sucked into it, carried into oblivion.
The summer always leaves me with a sense of transience, of deep impermanence; there’s a rot at the sweet center of summer that will start to stink by the end of the fall. Once the border of June 21st is crossed, and the days start getting shorter, I start to feel a deep sense of spiritual scarcity; aware that this fullness will be winnowed down to emptiness.
Perhaps this is because I’m not in the habit of living a slow life; of doing nothing. I don’t let myself be happy if I’m not productive. The result is that more and more I’m glued to my laptop — writing like I’m a writing factory and not an artist.
