There is something beautiful about progress.
In its malleable state, anyone can have it.
In lacking exclusivity, we all want it.
Yet, in its individual application, no one is quite sure how to capture it.
It evades our grasp like water in the clinched fist of a desert wander.
It sits on the horizon, steps away, waiting for our commitment.
It haunts our minds, takes hold of our bodies, as we stiffen in realization we may never obtain it.
But like the mirage in the desert, progress does not exist beyond the mind that created it.
Today's progress is tomorrow's afterthought: a forgotten memory, lost as we anxiously wonder if we will reach the next goal we set after making progress on the last.
It is a beautiful paradox that as we make more progress, we make less.
The distance grows further, the weight heavier, the goal far larger.
Its insidious: progress begets progress.
Progress happens slowly: undetectable until the moment it is actualized.
And, in this actualization, the marker is moved, and more progress is needed as we forget the last.
Chop wood.
Carry water.
One more step.
We become ensnared in our method of work.
We lust after the immaterial only to recall one, perhaps, two significant moments that never encapsulate all that was our progress.
We search for the words to retell all that was.
We desire for the focus to be on our efforts not our results.
We want progress.
It is not about the destination, it is about the journey.
But no one sees the journey.
To want progress is to invite the anxiety the comes with uncertainty of how we will reach out next goal.
We search the past, uncertain what memories to trust, dreaming of a future we are not sure how to obtain.
Our mind knows not how, but only to make more progress.
We stand in the present, looking toward the future, groping the recesses of our minds for the smallest bit of security.
But what is the present but a step into the future.
What is the future but one second ago?
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