I should be sleeping.

I've got to wake up early tomorrow. Things to do. Things to get done. Things to finish.

Is life really about the things?

The weekend's over - and I'm not ready for the week to start.

I've been through this, what, hundreds of times. Every Sunday night. Every end of holiday. Every time it's the same. Only the date on my watch tells me it's different.

Pit stop time is up, and I'm not tanked up yet.

I know my life really isn't anything to complain about. Really. It's quite cushy.

So what am I whining about? For some reason, not having an answer to that is even more infuriating. Life these days seems to be an endless chase.

After what?

Money-grades-performance bonuses-friends-love-cars-relaxation-youth-nirvana-peace-deityhood-...

I'd like to think I can stand apart from the world and laugh at it as it cartwheels madly toward what I know will be its destruction. Or at least a terrible mess.

I'd like to think I'm not part of it...

...says the tiny speck tossed about in the wind.

But as yet...I'm on an empty tank and the lap's just starting.

Happy Mother's Day.