“Life is made up of time.” Months ago, these words, in a moment of profundity, floated from my mothers lips like dandelion seeds. Heavy with responsibility, they landed in my consciousness and since then, I have not been able to quiet them. They reverberate in my skull as if they are the only thought I’ve ever had. Time.. It’s what I’m selling when I tear myself from my sheets every morning. Life.. That’s what I’m trading for green paper portraits of slave owners. Irony..

Tuesday. June 14, 2016. 3:18 am- Having cake and coffee with a newish friend that I must have known in another life. My thoughts trudge along in a caffeine fueled frenzy, and for some reason, today, I am able to articulate them; “Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?”  My companion, 12 years my senior, looked puzzled at the mid life crisis of a 23 year old.

Sometimes, anxiety stalks me in my peaceful places, and my visions seem merely dreams. The loud banging of sand passing through my mental hour glass keeps me up at night. Every time that I strike through the phrase “quitting job” in my datebook, and move it to the next page,  the collar of my metaphorical business shirt seems to get tighter.

Friday. July 1, 2016. 5:35pm- This is the week that I jump. Out of my safety net of regular paychecks and into the choppy waters of self-sufficiency or drown.

Monday. July 4, 2016. 10:41pm- I told the person who signs my paycheck that I would not be coming in tomorrow. I didn’t quite quit… I just said that I would be gone for roughly 3 weeks. Back at my local coffee hub, alone this time, I’m  contemplating my next move.