and yet. . . .

I don't know how to do things. I don't know how to accomplish things, or, more specifically, complete things. I am forever writing down my daily thoughts, ideas, goals, book recommendations on endless slips of paper and yet . . . . .

I am endlessly dreaming of writing, drawing, working on creative projects, writing papers, making music, the days when I will do all these things and yet. . . . .

I think at least three times a week of all the places I long to travel to, everything I long to do, the walk across england I long to take, the experiences I dream of having and yet. . . . .

I am a flurry of tightly wound, anxious energy that dissipates into ellipses before even reaching my fingertips. . . .

and yet. . . .

I dream of the day when all this anxiety, and over-thought will cease, when the tension will melt from my shoulders, when I will write every day, and challenge my brain to truly think every day, and when i will run with ease over the rolling hills of my landscape, and yet. . . .

that day continues to elude me.

Whether this is of my own doing, or simply a pipe dream, I do not know.

there is only uncertainty. i must accept this.

and yet. . . .

"the opposite of a great truth is also a great truth"