There is simply not enough time in the day to accomplish all that I’d like to accomplish. People say that we make time for that which matters most to us, but to them I reply, “Hush.”
There must be a lot that matters to me, because time has always been and will always be my most beloved Nemesis. Some part of me wants to write a book and have the villain be Jonathan Sixoclock just to poke fun at that which I cannot conquer.
The day starts at 5:30 a.m. – which is so horrendously ridiculous (sounded like a lucky charms commercial). I drop off children who sleep as we ride or mess with my radio and introduce me to songs that make me grateful that my teenage years are over. Working all day long is a bit taxing, especially because I find myself running from meeting to meeting for nine hours, all the while thinking of my next novel, or a great character I could make out of the various people I interact with all day. It’s almost disturbing to be inside my head.
I pick up kiddos after work and run by to see my parents most days, namely because my mother is the best southern cook in the universe and my father is a bowl full of jokes. Getting home fourteen hours after I left, I try to talk myself into exercising, all the while thinking of how to properly write a query letter and which logo to choose for my bookkeeping company that I’m in the midst of starting.
I consider reading because honestly, what is better than reading? Really… nothing. After assisting with math homework and writing a to-do list for my handsome hubby, I usually sit down to start plugging away at my latest novel or editing something for future production. I find lately that twitter has become an addiction and it seemingly joins the side of time in stealing precious moments that could move me closer to my dream of writing all day and eating bon-bons all night. Or something along those lines. I fall into bed exhausting just before realizing that I need to set the clock – for 5:30 a.m.
Why do you run from me, make fun of me and poke at me with subtle reminders that you’re a fair-weather friend? Why do you creep by in the most uncomfortable and awkward of situations and race away in the most exhilarating? Why do you steal my youth and my memories and make me wish at times you’d do more of both?
It’s time that we break up, me and you. It’s me, not you.