when do we ever get the chance to rest?

and what kind of change, with comfort and discomfort, follows, if any? every moment swallowed up by the next, begging you to let it go. i'm not obsessive about trying to improve things that already happened, but i wonder why we have to be who we are while we are being that person. so little time for reflection, i give it. art as a time capsule, or better, as a separate entity, so that it doesn't have to involve me anymore if it doesn't want to. i still have my class notes from my high school english class, my junior college logic class, my university art history survey class. that's my handwriting, no doubt, and i do remember those discussion, a handful of those people, the teachers. what's it look like from 1000 feet, however, or decades up? now that i'm not in school, i'm really feeling a change, like a huge part of what i did and enjoyed doing is no longer my routine and life. what will feed me in the future?