Arthritis of the Fingers

My hands work mercilessly,

then stop.

My mind wanders on, wondering what I'm gathering supplies for. It's just another project started, toiled with for a moment, then tossed away.

Again, I turn my eyes down, reflecting on my life.

Thirty years nearly now. Thirty years and it feels like I'm scrubbing the same stain over and over again. The bothersome thought of being 'empty' tries to goad my attention in its direction, but I tell it I'm 'busy' as if to replace the word with something else before I tirelessly toil at scrubbing that away too.

Where is calm? Where is peace of mind? The serenity of living in the moment and basking in it instead of tallying off one check mark to the next, subduing the urge to recreate the list?

I haven't a clue.

Still, my hands work needlessly in a direction called 'the future' though it seems to carry none of the precarious dreams I had for it. No. Only planning and toiling. Gathering and gaining, but for what? For what do I intend to loose in my hoard? In my perspective gain, but nothing to fruit of it? No garments, no trinkets... No monies in exchanges for works. Just... toiling.

Like I am offering myself up to the God of Time, asking him to fulfill my wishes, but the emptiness behind me is scrubbing away my progress. Like I cannot settle on myself that I am constantly sweeping paths before me, leaving nothing behind but supplies and nothing made of them.

Why?

Why am I so tireless? When will I finally settle in and realize that I have time to take 'breaks' and 'enjoy events' while meandering about in my existence, simply okay with just being here. Where is the joy when all I feel is a hankering for the very word that escapes me even now?

It feels aimless, yet not very so at the same breath.

I am just here, but I am unsettled by the very fact.

Gods, I'd give to be settled with it, but I can't.