Waiting, it's a promise

I had one of those very adult days today, which seem only to make me feel more like I'm faking it, this whole grown-up thing. I got up and went for a run in the arboretum. (I know, two days in a row. What the fuck?) It was packed for the lilac festival, and the children just looked at me as I went past, like "Why is that crazy lady running?" I wanted to respond, "I don't know, kid. I really don't know," but I just pressed on. And said goodbye to an old friend passing through town. And did laundry. And worked from home a little. And made dinner. All like a good grown-up should. But all I can think through my whole day is: I'm just killing time. Which is a waste, because time is reborn every second. I know that sometimes I feel like there isn't enough time in the world to do everything I want, but today time is an anchor, pulling me down with its weight, its unending, inevitable stretches that promise nothing.