“Mother Mary sings to me…”

I feel as if I have less time than I used to. I described this feeling to my mother and she began to tell me of all the things I do now that I did not used to do, and that I’m much busier and thus I have less time. I nodded and agreed because I suppose she’s right.

The truth is, she’s wrong. I have the same amount of time. You probably do too, unless you’re one of those people who just doesn’t.

I’m in a constant state of thought, dreaming of what’s next and the next line of the book I’m writing. There’s always music playing in my head too. I imagine these things come from within and then float up and out. Some linger around long enough for me to hear them, and the rest go up in the air, floating to the sky. Maybe they get caught in the clouds before they’re gone entirely. So the few that I catch, the ones that stay with me, they must be the important ones. The words and pictures and people that matter. They stay, and the rest go.

And here I begin to think again; I think how many of those thoughts get let go because I’m at work, or in class, or sleeping because I  worked eighteen hours on one hour of sleep. I begin to wonder, if I had less time would I catch the same thoughts? What about the people who truly do have less time, because the doctors couldn’t fix them or because they went to war so I didn’t have to?

So I also wonder: are their thoughts swirling about the gray sky above me, slicing through mine and cutting them up or twirling into them and becoming one? Or do they just sail right past and go higher than mine ever could because I have time, and they don’t. Maybe mine got stuck on the leaves of trees and in the thick clouds.

If they’re stuck there, maybe I can get them back. I have the time to try, anyway.