Interim

The days between. Nothing of import on the calendar. No real goal or purpose, just a handful of vanilla hours quickly forgotten. A strange and listless void. Nature abhors a vacuum, so the mind rushes to fill the space. Thoughts and concerns about a nonexistent future. A time when something matters, when there’s something to do. Sometimes it’s the past. I’ve spent entire commutes lost in memory. Or worse, hypothetical situations of my own creation. It’s as if the present moment is uncomfortable. The mind keeps sliding off to one side or the other, desperate for distraction. A common deathbed confession is profound disappointment with how the time was spent. I watch the minutes and hours tick by and wonder, what am I supposed to do? A voice responds: You’re asking the wrong questions.