A measure of time

I consider the quality of any given time is measured by the degree of hollowness I (or anybody) feels afterward. This may be immediate, the following day or weeks in the future.

And if I were to ask myself why or to analyze this hollowness, The simple answer points to my absence of fortitude in my writing and my over consumption of those activities that hold no intrinsic joy or value.

Consuming alcohol when I know it will merely reinforce my depression. Watching YouTube or Netflix in a slack-jawed trance. Searching the kitchen for the unnamed snack I missed the first eight times. The mindless trek across a mountain of Twitter posts reaching much beyond my mind’s comprehension to pay attention to. Even in the car, traveling-where ever, neglecting to seek for the purple cow (Seth Godin)

I crave the chance to contemplate self-awareness somewhere remote and detached. A small cabin tucked away in a boundless wilderness or in a tent along a remote lake among Minnesota’s thousands. But life is not that accommodating. Self-reflection must alien in tandem to every moment as it unfolds.

Still, I will continue to seek this self-awareness of mine. In the cracks between the continuous motion of an energetic toddler and full-time work. I will string together my concerns, thoughts, and desires as if creating my personal voodoo doll that will in turn, be a design for who I need to become.