At Breakfast on a Rainy Day

I'm often caught by the thought that I’m running out of time. And then the more I sit with it, the clearer it becomes: it isn’t time that’s running out. It’s me, forgetting to live inside the minute I’m in and always somewhere away from the now. Backward, forward, jumping around here and there, looking for what? The past that can never be retrieved, or the future good of tomorrow that never comes?

It’s the impermanence of things—the knowledge that nothing stays—that unsettles me. And so I chase, I hold, I hoard, as if I might outrun entropy. But I don’t. None of us do. Everything slips through anyway. That’s the part no one tells you: how much futility there is in meaning, how much meaning there is in futility.

A bloody infinite downward spiral to a bottomless pit of despair.

Don't cling. There's nothing.