passing time

somewhere along the way work became insurmountable, or, at least, unbearable. But once removed from the trudgery of passing time unbearably occupied you are left unoccupied. If only you can count the moments each one as it passes do they seem worthy, bearable, even gratifying, but is this too, like romantic love, an illusion, the temporary flame of courtship? Is is really possible that being alone with your own experience can be gratifying and for how long? The greatest fear is that you won't be able to afford distractions. What a luxury it is to occupy your time with acquiring one thing or another, to travel from one place to the next at a whim, or purchase one experience and then another. To string them together so that time is not something hauntingly present, but passes anesthetized. Life accumulating as a series of Facebook posts. From all accounts it even suggests a purpose in life, experiencing life like an explorer or voyager. And perhaps it is true that there is a purpose to experience. Then, of course, life always demands to be experienced, even if you haven't the good fortune to afford a more cosmetic version of it. What makes you think that you will be better at experiencing life on the fly, than being left to your own crumbs of thought without the distractions?
 It seemed that if he could write a line, or think a thought that there would be some purpose worth living for, as if a thought were a life preserver. Perhaps it was more like a note that he felt contributed to some mystical symphony. Instinctively though, he knew that thoughts passed like meteor showers and all that was left of them were the dust blown by the wind. He tried to hang onto whatever youth remained as if youth was worn like faded blue jeans. He wasn't sure if he ever had it. If he did it must have been before he remembered for ever since he could remember he felt weighed down by the burden of self worth. Youth seemed to be more in the future than the past. It seemed like finally there might be a carefree time.