the hourglass

i've lost my grasp on time.. although i'm not quite certain i ever had it in the first place.
i feel like i barely exist, moving unevenly from sleep to shower, to school, to work, to homework, to sleep, to shower. i have to keep reminding myself that there is a purpose behind what i do, but it in the midst of this flatline existence, i've forgotten what it is.

this is what i dream for myself, to escape the gray of the present:
a camera with a full roll of film in a metropolitan park on a windy, fall day; a hot cup of tea shared with a friend on an outdoor patio of a corner cafe, our hats and scarves and coats and gloves muffling the bite of the cold; a ballet watched with a visiting sister, the quiet warmth of the theatre enveloping us as the scene below unfolds; a small apartment on an upper floor, the walls a pigeon gray, the crisp sheets of my bed white, the furniture sparse, and the only visible indulgence--books, in well-kept piles and on shelves;

a canvas as large as a door propped against a wall in a countryside studio, the spring air wafting in the sweet smell of young plants and damp earth through the window, the table spread with tubes of oils, mineral spirits, paintbrushes, and rags;

a university office where i piece together research and prepare upcoming lectures, where i play the role of an adult for the required hours, until i return home; the armchair where i rest, post- metropolitan apartment, in a home i share with someone who loves books and thinking as much as i do, who does most of the cooking and lets me read deep into the evening, the fireplace crackling, and the dog--or cat, maybe?--twitching as he sleeps; the table, perimetered with several close friends, wine and a fine but simple dinner laid out between us, and soft but unpretentious notes floating into the silences from the record player by the window;

outings with sisters to the coast, where we spend time together and alone, a few hours of writing dispersed among the full weekend of late and lazy breakfasts, afternoon outings, and midnight picnics around the bonfire, where beer and maybe wine unleash the flow of reckless conversations, laughter, and even singing, when a few of us pull out our guitars and start to play...

am i trying to mesh impossibly unlike fragments together into a life that can't exist? forgive me if i repeat the refrain that has been echoing for several long months now, but i don't know what i want for myself anymore.
how am i supposed to plan how to get there?