Speeding. On the highway of life.

I try to adjust. To circumstances. On a daily basis. Here it is. Just past midnight. On Wednesday.  Don't know yet when I'll go to bed. Or get up. Or what I'll do Wednesday. Depends on how I feel. And circumstances. I could spend the day in many different ways. In different activities. I have no set plan. No schedule to do this or that. I like that. Having an unplanned day. Of course, I'll write. Because I write virtually every day. But don't ask me what I'll write about. I have no idea. Again, depends on circumstances. And my mood. My inclinations. Always, I find something to write about. It's an obligation. Because I am a writer. I feel compelled to write. It's what I do. My pastime. My stimulation. Makes me feel alive. And skillful. Maybe I'd be less of a thinker. If I didn't write. I'm sitting at my computer. Looking at the keyboard. And I'm using two fingers. To type my current thought. It's a nice skill. Better than writing longhand.  I scribble. Which is a shame. Because in the sixth grade I got perfect grades. In penmanship. With perfectly formed letters. Now my handwriting is barely legible. Speed. Speed. Speed. That's my emphasis. I need to record my thoughts. As fast as they come. Which is very fast. In the sixth grade, I was able to take my time. No hurry. Neatness  on paper was the order of the day. I was not yet being taught the craft of fast-paced living.  But didn't take long. For the circumstances to dictate. That I had better speed up. Or risk being left behind.  On the highway of life. --Jim Broede