can't think of an appropriate existentialist title

Waiting for something to happen is, I fear, when one truly begins to know oneself. And maybe that's not a good thing. Why am I so impatient? So worried? So fed up when nothing is really going wrong? I'm so used to being busy. I think that is the main problem. And now my husband and I argue as to whether I can go out and about in the car at this stage. He won the argument these last two days, but today is my battle won. We are going out to the library (he will not let me go unattended) and then to the grocery store. This is to drop him off in the cafe so that he can get some peaceful writing thinking time and instead of me going straight home, I'm going to sneak off and buy some Easter candy. All pointless, I know and not worth writing about. But nevermind. Today it is a diary.