I did it again. I was writing and I reset the timer and so now I’m just hammering away once more, hoping to get this done in a timely manner. I hadn’t written too much but it is frustrating but there’s little I can do about it now.

I guess I could’ve just kept writing without a timer abut that wouldn’t nearly be as “fun” for me and so that is not what I am going to do at this particular juncture in time. Instead I’ll continue on this new path and see where it takes me. Perhaps across deserts or into mountains or through snow and all those other things that make everything sound like a journey of the massive.

I don’t know why I do this to myself. I don’t know why I accidentally reset a timer. I don’t know and so on and so forth and I don’t know how the cosmos is the way it is at this particular point in time, and I also don’t know what it will be in the future. I’m sure I could guess for the next seventeen minutes, but for now I cannot work it out and so I’m not going to try and work it out.

Also because I’d rather focus on my field of study and some other things, so… yeah.

So anyway, I’m sitting here and I’m bemoaning my fate, and I’m also hearing some nice music. There were some birds that were audible that were outside before and now they’re not. They must’ve gone somewhere where they cannot be seen. Or heard from where I currently am. They were gone before I accidentally reset the timer and that’s a thing. That’s a shame. Or maybe it is not; I am yet to work it out and I don’t know if I can work it out, or even if I care to work it out. There are other things that I want to deal with, such as the need to get ready for work as soon that will be upon me and then I’ll need to get through that.

I wonder if the day will carry me forward in a way that I can truly appreciate, or if it will all collapse by the wayside as it folds in on itself and then I’m stuck here with this neat little package that I then need to deliver to tomorrow so tomorrow can open it and it then becomes another day. I wonder if I am merely a courier of moments and they are all inconsequential from some angles and highly important from other angles.

Perhaps all we ever do is carry moments forward and deliver them to others and then they’re no longer ours and that’s it and that’s all we ever do, and there’s nothing else to it. That’s fine as we still get to live our lives and sometimes that is enough. Sometimes it is not, but sometimes it is and that’s not the worst.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:52:14

Was pretty fast on this one.

I feel like I was quite close to touching on something worth exploring and then I kind of veered away.

Written at home.