Time

 

Time is not my friend.

Every day that passes makes me that much more frustrated that I spend my life using all my energy and time in the pursuit of other people’s dreams. Time I can’t get back. I can only spend it once. Like that Daffy Duck cartoon where he keeps trying to outdo Bugs Bunny on stage, and finally blows himself up. He gets the audience’s cheers, but it’s a trick he can only do once. Like life. There’s no reset button, there’s no do-over. Every day is a mini-explosion that can’t be repeated.

The only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do in life was write. But I had to table that dream while making a living, raising children, surviving after divorce, and being everyone else’s safety net. Maybe it comes from being a middle-child; always looking after others seems to be my fate. So I take jobs that pay the bills, and always the writing comes last.

And still I continue to work on my writing in the blips of time between running the house and mowing the yard and commuting to and from work, and earning a paycheck to keep food on the table and lights and heat on. Am I ungrateful? Millions would be thrilled to have what I have. I’ve had periods of unemployment (laid off three times) and part of me rejoiced at being free, at having time suddenly. Did I write? No. The practical side of me was too stressed, too terrified of losing everything I’d worked for, afraid of losing my home, not having money to put food on the table. It’s hard to be creative when you’re not sure if you can pay bills. Those days went by in a blur of combing the want ads, registering with placement agencies, going on interview after interview for jobs that would further deaden a soul. Maybe someone reading this can relate.

Is that the curse of being human, being sentient? Always wanting more, always wanting to be more? We dream, we desire, we hope. I haven’t given up, despite moments when I despair. Too bad we can’t jump through a wormhole and gain back the years. That’d be my superpower, time travel.