In our quiet selves, we know exactly what we want, what magic we need to invoke to get there. And, you know, in real time, that's not at all a big deal. Think of college; think of those *endless* years between 19 and 21--that magic number, 21. I remember watching older friends and thinking how bloody endless it all was, those three years. But in real time? The days ran by, the months, the years, and so it goes. And here I am, a simultaneous split second and years later.
It's the thinking that gets us. It's the brain trying its damndest to wrest control of time, of timelines, wielding its whips and chains to make sure that, nope, sorry--you must be chronically unsatisfied, anxious, and tired. Well, you know what? I *am* tired. I'm tired of my brain counting hours and days and looking forward, using only past experience and made-up nonsense to fill the space between now and the mythical then.
I think I'll just drink my coffee and go to the woods and listen to the birds and dig in the dirt until, well, until I don't.