Every evening, I steal two hours of the day.

These are my hours. This is my time.

I can lose myself in my time.

In my time,

I can write poems or stories,

draw, paint, or make music.

Anything.

I have a room for my time.

I have a comfortable chair,

an uncluttered desk,

and a shiny new computer

for my time.

I sit down in front of the screen

at the start of my time

and I begin.

Two hours later,

at the end of my time,

I have done nothing worthwhile.

I say to myself,

‘There is not enough time

in my time’.

A small truth hiding a larger lie.

The hard-to-face fact is this:

I need much more than time.