Wasting time.

Can you ruin the day?

Can you really waste time?

Is it possible to let the minutes slip through your fingers?

Is there a better way to spend our lives, or do we ever only spend our lives the way we spend it?

I guess you’ve pondered questions like these.

I know I did, and I still do.

Those are the gray days.

In a way, worrying about wasting time might be the ultimate way to waste time.

(If wasting time is even possible.)

Isn’t that sad?

Thinking about where you could have been, who you could have been, the things you could have possessed, and the relations you could have cherished.

Could have, if life only hadn’t been the way it is.

Could be, if dreams were more true than what’s happening right here, in the now, the place where stillness lives.

Why do we do that, slapping on thick layers of hurt and frustration by judging ourselves for being who we are, and not who we could have been -if only?

Why do we spend SO MUCH FUCKING time contemplating what’s not?

Well: we don’t.

It just happens.

And we buy into it, the way trained monkeys grab a piece of stale fruit.

Most of our lives is wasted thinking about the life that never was, and never will be.

It’s like a deeply perverse hobby, a twisted longing for suffering.

But in the end, nothing was really wasted, ever.

Only in theory.

Good luck living in thát place.