I don't think they're ever wasted.. maybe we just think they are. Maybe the last 20 years of (my) life have some purpose or meaning that evades me. But if we die without realising that meaning.. are they wasted then? Or, once I'm dead, what difference does it make whether I realise it or not? Maybe the meaning of my life is to provide a supply of fertilizer to help some weeds to flourish after I'm dead.
sometimes, when I've stared out the window, paced my halls only to stare out the windows again, then scribble on little notebooks and all of a sudden the day is gone, I get angsty for a bit. Then I put some of the scribblings or pictures or both out for everyone to see, and I feel better. A psychologist will tell you it's because of my mother's protestant work ethic, and I'll tell you... that's true.I was told I was frivolous and flighty (flighty being the most used endearment.. ahem) which really is my nature. I've come to figure out that it's not a bad thing, but when I'm not doing anything monetarily productive, there is a nagging (hehe) feeling I'm wasting my time.She was born a coal miners daughter in appalachia, not much room for frivolity in her childhood. Mom's very good at art, or was. I saw some of her work in an old scrapbook. She didn't pursue it. Probably squashed at a young age... imagine that. Thanks for reminding me, that whenever I get it 'out of my head and into the room' I have really produced more than if I had just worked for money."Out of my head and into the room, so when my ghost takes me from you, You can remember the fool that I am. Don't cry, baby, don't cry" -Dave Matthews