I find myself beset more than slightly by impatience and inconvenience.
These are, for the most part, novel emotions to me -- or at least rare enough that I can turn them over for examination and feel that I'm in bold and uncharted territory, if also in a realm of itchy anticipation.
There's an amusement factor in observing one's own childish foibles, although I suppose the drollness may serve as a bulwark preserving my adult self-image. Oh. Look at this silly part of me, this little nugget of immaturity, insecurity. Isn't it cute? Obviously I'm not remotely in danger of letting it spiral me into a fit of infantile pique.
How much leash should I offer this mood of desire thwarted by the sluggish progress of days and events that stand between me and that which I find myself craving with more and more wanton abandon?
Clearly the answer is that it does not matter. The wheels, gears, and cogs of the universe shall turn as they will, and no measured biding of time can make them run faster.
Has contemplating this set at ease my restless temper by even the tiniest damned bit?
No. But I suppose at least that the ten or twenty minutes spent spinning these thoughts into threads and skeins has put me ten or twenty minutes closer to that which I impatiently await.
