Adulting is soup and I am fork.

Writing and me.
2 min readDec 3, 2022

Today’s date.

I wake up and the day happens. It doesn’t matter whether I am ready for it or not, the day happens and the thing that ticks never stops ticking. I’m not sure, but I don’t think it cares.

Sometimes, I pray, for most of the day; other times I don’t have the words, so I just do other things, as fillers. Recently though, when I can’t pray or hear God, I read God. Actually scratch that, I’m reading God more and more these days. I guess that’s SOMETHING going well in all this madness that is the consistency of adulting.

Then, there are the choices and the conversations; the constant consciousness required to conduct myself.

Then, there are the bouts of loneliness.

Adulting is soup and I am fork, and regardless of how many bowls I have encountered, I can’t seem to get a hold of adulting. The “aha!” moments -those moments when it appears I can bring back insights from the past to do the present- seem very few in comparison to all the other moments.

Time is going by like it’s not. I wake up, the day happens, I mark the world or I don’t. Rinse. Repeat. I wake up, the day happens, I mark the world, I don’t. Rinse, repeat.

There is more. There should be more. There usually is more. Looks like there could be more. Don’t you think?