Supersaturation
I think there really is some truth to the concept that our minds can hold a finite amount of information. At least, that's how mine appears to function, though I loathe having to admit to such an intellectual limit. So this is adulthood: a never-ending treadmill of more obligations, more responsibility, more bureaucracy and more social isolation than I'd thought possible. There are so many things I'd aspired to at one time, and now it's all I can do to get through a day remembering the names of everyone I come in contact with on a daily basis.
There's just Too Much Of Everything. Not enough room for me.
Not enough room for writing. For socializing. For dreaming. For escaping. For relaxing. For fun. For anything that doesn't amount to some iota of a latent panic-driven push forward. Always forward, even if that's not the direction I want to go.
Not enough time to reach out to anyone who has ever considered me a friend, or even a distant unknown acquaintance over the Internet, just to say, "Thank you for being a presence in my life, however distant."
Too much sorrow, too many struggles, and not enough time to reach out and scream at the top of my lungs for it all to stop. My mind is full. My schedule is full. My cup of worries runneth over.
And I'm still so empty.