I’m having the worst anxiety.
All of the reading I’ve been doing as of late. At the end of every paragraph, I’m compelled to write a response, to describe how this observation, made however many years ago initially, is germane to something that is happening today.
[That, of course, was your intention when you committed to reading only that political literature which was published prior to the year 2008. Why, then, do you complain about your, shall we say, fecundity of response?]
Because there’s never enough time in the day to respond to all of it. I feel as though I’m constantly racing against time, battling to get the words out before I lose the thought.
[If you are truly in such danger of forgetting that which you wish to say, then is it fair to question the pertinence, the urgency, of whatever it is you would?]
Jeez, you make it sound like I’m annihilating my mind with alcohol, or something. What I meant to say is that, by the time I get to the next paragraph, a new idea comes to mind and hogs the mental spotlight from its predecessor. I wish I had more time to read and write, more time to focus on the things I’m reading, and more time to draft a more detailed reply.