Procrastination is the thief of time. (gasp) Yes, I used a cliché, so take away my keyboard! Looking out a kitchen window this morning, I saw a hummingbird come to the feeder only to find it empty. I apologized. It’s been empty for two weeks. Twice I’ve made the syrup to refill it, set it aside to cool, and then forgot to fill the feeder. I do not manage my time well.
I think imagination is also a thief of time.
Sometimes, I daydream of living in a cottage in the woods where time is defined only by darkness and light, modified by the seasons. That’s probably a daydream I shouldn’t indulge in. My mind tends to wander back there, while my body is expected to run on the artificial construct of “realworld” time. I’m always vague on what day of the week it is or, on occasion, what month. The date of an event I would swear occurred two weeks ago, I’m often astonished to discover is actually five weeks past.
I read a lot … time is fluid. I spend far too many hours online … open 24/7 for your convenience. I write every moment I can … and there I am most easily lost. I create people and conversations and situations—my way, my world, my time. Bookworld, not realworld.
Sometimes, I lose track of where I am … of where I am supposed to be … of which is home.