death ... dogs ... rabbits

Pretty sure I’ve written before about a twenty one pilots song lyric that has stuck with me since I heard it:

“Death inspires me like a dog inspires a rabbit.”

God, does it ever.

Not to be melodramatic, but I do feel the beating wings of the angel of death, aka my mortality, which push forward my creative projects and can sometimes make me frantic.

Then I take a deep breath and tell myself not to get morbid. But still, I struggle with the concept that I have so many things still to do…

So many stories. So many creative projects. So much stuff I want to get done and experience.

And I’m hounded by the limits of time.

Often.

I just feel this pressure … what if I can’t finish this book I’m on. (Or the next? Or the next? Or the next?) Then … what will happen? … I won’t feel fulfilled? I won’t have accomplished what I was put on this planet to do?

(I was put on this planet to feel good and enjoy life. But writing books and finishing them is part of that.)

So, how do I get myself to calm down?

Well, first, I know that time is a construct. And, perhaps, time is infinite. I’m certain that the only true time I have is now.

My brain whines: but there are so many books to write. (Paintings to paint. Songs to sing. Places to visit. Meals to enjoy. Movies to watch.) And you don’t have enough timmmmmeeeee.

A key struggle of my life is that I have this big pile of wanting to do … and only one moment at a time to do things. (Pretty sure this isn’t unique to me.)

And sometimes that moment is spoken for by others or things I have planned. Or it isn’t the right moment to write.

The only way I’ve learned to deal with this anxiety is to just take a deep breath and slow down to the moment. Right now, literally, right now, I am writing. That is the thing I most want to do with my time right now. What I most want to do will shift to proofing this. Posting it. Moving on to something else.

In some ways, the only way I can survive is if I pretend I have all the time in the world. (Because I do.)