I once aspired to join the breathless race,
To wear the badge of overwhelm with pride,
To fill each hour, to quicken every pace,
Until exhaustion walked close by my side.
And now they think I am that restless thing—
The calendared, the urgent, the stretched thin.
But this is not the song I meant to sing,
This hollow theatre I never chose to win.
Sometimes restlessness plagues like locusts in heat,
Sometimes burnout beacons like a freaked-out clam—
All smoke and mirrors, bitter and complete,
A counterfeit of who I really am.
In the end I want none of it, this show:
Satisfaction is in growth, and growth's in letting go.