While stuck in bed.
The hours tick by in a blink,
The sun drops from the sky, only to return again, quick as it fell.
I realize I am only happy when I produce,
Unproductive days are not totally unproductive.
They produce a quantity of anxiety and fear.
Fear that my life is wasted, the time is short.
When you’re away and I fade into missing you, I fear you will return and find me unproductive, and you will judge.
But you never judge.
You never look down at me.
You merely tell me not to worry about a few unproductive days.
Because there is always tomorrow.