Dying Like a Day

Taped onto one of the shelves on my desk is a strip of paper which has the following words typed on it: Writing makes you feel better. It was given to me by my friends Staci and Solon, who had made several copies of it to keep as general reminders, free to whomever needed one. I took one home after my last visit with them.
How true it is. Miraculously, the simple setting down of words, as with the speaking of one's feelings, has such a therapeutic effect. Nothing is changed or fixed, but just getting it out does so much.
Today I have been struggling against time, willing the clocks to stop, and growing more and more sad as I futilely watch the day slip through my fingers. I feel this every day, and yet I find that it's more intense when I'm actually using my time well. I have been so productive today! I argue. Why cannot time slow down for these moments? When I waste my time, I hardly notice the end of the day approaching. But when I have lived, when I have done all I could do, it always makes me sad. I start to slow down. The coffee has long since worn off, the light starts to fade. The energy, the will drains out of me. Perhaps it's simply the passing of my peak hours that brings me down. I feel most creative and alive between nine a.m. and noon. Once it's past, I cannot help but feel diminished.
But that's no reason to let it stop me entirely. I would do well to learn to work with these feelings, not futilely rail against them. I just refuse to accept the inevitable passing of that part of the day, and that part of me that lives in it. I can create and function for the afternoon and night if I just readjust my expectations and intentions. Mornings are good for writing and listening to pop music (especially Elephant 6 stuff). Afternoons are good for reading and drinking tea and relaxing. Evenings make me want to listen to Low, drink Papio, and perhaps do a bit more writing. These are all good things.
But I still have the desire to retain that morning feeling, that fresh, zealous attitude, and so I despair everytime I am unable to keep it.
So the good days seem to fly by, the mornings of infinite possibility and joy, and the down times seem to last forever. I still get sad, and each passing morning feels like a tiny death. I can't stop it.
So I write it down. The clock still counts off the seconds, the day wanes.
But writing does make you feel better. It's true.