There Is Never Enough Time


There is not enough time.

There is not enough time for me to write poetry, there is not enough time for me to try and be happy. There is always something more pressing, something more real-world concerning.

The things I burn for always get the raincheck treatment.

I prioritize going to the store over playing with words and you prioritize homework over hobbies but I can’t say that, can I? That’s irresponsible. Homework is important.

But have you lived a little? Have you said ‘fuck it’ at least once? Have you ever gotten the impulse to pack just one bag in the middle of the night and go somewhere where no one knows your name?

Against reason. Against good advice. Against everything you have ever known.

Because your bones already feel heavy and you are stuck living a life you do not want. Of course, yes, you grew up as a very sensible thing, turned the lights off to save on the electricity bill, but didn’t you ever want to do something very stupid, something irresponsible with sheer abandon?

Didn’t you ever want to do something shameful and refuse to be ashamed?

There is not enough time.

There is never time.

But I wonder something – will there ever be time? Will the time ever be right?

Even if my hands are shaking, there are the things I must do. Every nerve in me says not to do it, not to go forward, this is not how it works. But it has worked for so many people. Everyone has lost it at one point and sometimes it ended badly, but sometimes it ended really well.

I sit in the classroom and draw in the margins of my notebook. I am not cut out for this life of 9am meetings and wrapping shit in cellophane and calling it a gift. I am not cut out for this. But I could be. You could be. We all could be.

We have to make a decision, you and I. Fight or flight. And I am tired of always turning around and going back home with pockets empty of dreams. I was happier in my shitty, broken-down car than I am wearing these suits.

I sit in the classroom and draw in the margins of my notebook. I have three notebooks for my writing. I have only one for my classes. Prioritization.

“And maybe they – Elon Musk, Steve Jobs – maybe they succeeded because they quit school and never learned that odds are not in their favor. Maybe they succeeded because they never knew that they couldn’t possibly.”

Well, shit. This is how it starts, I think, with a kernel of truth buried in the middle of a boring lecture about things that we’ll all forget. There’s just one business model. It’s called “throw yourself into the fucking sea and start swimming.”

I’m the queen of good life advice, sensible life advice. Leave him if he makes you feel like you are less than an exploding universe good on your own. Always have a backup plan, always notice the exits in closed spaces. A fire can always start. You need to get out. You need to get out now.

I’m the queen of good life advice and do you know what I hate? I hate the advice. All advice. I am overflowing with other people’s reasonable shit and overflowing with my own reasonable shit. I think nothing extraordinary came out of being reasonable. It’s a recipe for how to live your life smart – not how to live your life well.

There is not enough time.

There never will be, I think, until I do the reckless, crazy, destructive thing. There never will be, until you decide to change it all, until you decide to be the one thing you never thought you’d deserve to be, until you sink your teeth into your life like it’s sweet pomegranate and feel it dribbling down your chin.

It’s yours. This life is yours.

It’s mine, too.

And the only honest thing I have ever told anyone was – fuck it. Just go for it. You have to do what you have to do. And the only thing you owe anyone? It’s you. And you owe it to yourself to do exactly what you want to do. To hell with consequences. To hell with fear. It’s just another thing to defeat.

At least it will never be boring.