Sometimes I feel like this on the weekends:
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possibly in life. And I am horribly limited. [Sylvia Plath]
Because I find myself: Stressed over not being able to do all of the un-stressful things I’d like to be doing.
So then I remind myself:
One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words. [Unknown]
And then I feel: Better about things.
And I realize everything will get done, in addition to confetti-ing my mundane with my creative. With that, I’m off to trend more to the productive side of life.
Ciao ciao and as ever,