Red ink fills my notebooks and wrists.
Tired eyes, sloppy print.
Lines and lines of scribbled deadlines and unchecked boxes.
My life is a string of unchecked boxes.
And I wonder. Is this how it's meant to be?
Non-stop. Machine. Work faster. Faster. FASTER.
So little time. So much to do. So many checkboxes unticked.
I should stop. I should sleep. But I can't.
And I confess:
This stress the checkboxes bring, the guilt, the worry. . .
. . . I crave it.
Something needs to keep me working.
I need to stay busy. I won't let myself sleep.
And as I run out of time, I wonder.
What's the point?