Boundless Entries

If I had more time I don’t think I’d write more. 

As I usually say I would, if I had more time. 

In fact, I think I would write less. 

Precisely because I’d think that I have time. 

There would be no rush. 

No words to chase. 

Nothing to jot down out of fear that it’ll slip away. 

No memory to quickly recall and feeling to deliberately obscure between the lines. 

There would be no momentary relief from a bottled up memory fighting its way back to the surface. 

No intense need to hang on to fleeting glance in a poem or two. 

Because I would think that I have time.

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And that is how time would play me for a fool. 

Time. 

That which dresses itself like a giver but is indeed a thief. 

We are not friends in this lifetime. For I have stripped you of your deceit. 

I am far too wise to make believe that you are on my side. 

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So I write. Not when I have more time. 

But exactly because I know I don’t. 

And I find the thrill in scribbling down the two lines in my unstable lap. In the moving car or train. 

Because if they don’t come undone now, they might swallow me whole. 

And I find the thrill in taking out my notebook in the most unconventional spaces. At a bar. On a date. 

And I find the thrill in pretending it’s all meeting notes when I’m bleeding a frozen moment in time on paper surrounded by colleagues and corporate walls. 

And I find the thrill in staying up a little too late because the pen won’t stop moving. 

And I find the thrill in being myself only in these rushed moments when I get to reveal what has been hiding all along. 

And I find the thrill in simply knowing that I have no time.

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So I fight and rush against it all. To put down my words dressed as poetry and sometimes simply just as lines. 

To give myself the dishonest excuse. 

That I would write much more, if only i had more time.