When I tell people what I do with my free time, some say I have too much. Maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t feel that way.
It only felt that way when I wasn’t doing the things I now do.
My writing and drawing might seem silly to some, but they make sense to me. Before I began, nothing did.
I found my peace with an ink pen in my hand. I once was lost, but now I write; was blind, but now I draw.
There are other things that make sense to me, things like kissing my wife, sending goofy text messages to my daughter, watching zombie movies with my son, listening to a local band with a group of friends.
When does life make sense to you?
When you’re solving a puzzle?
When you’re molding a lump of clay?
When you’re holding someone’s hand?
When you’re on a platform dancing, singing, acting, or teaching?
If it makes sense, then it’s not a waste of time. If it is, then everything is, and you might as well waste your time wisely.
It makes sense to me.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
I’m not sure life makes sense to me at all, though whenn I’m writing it makes more sense; perhaps that’s why I write fantasy stories. Great post BTW.
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Wonderful post. Thanks for sharing.
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