There's No Time

I'm never happier than when my pen's about to run out of ink, when there's not enough room left in my novel for a bookmark, or when my headphones can't get any louder. When I hear the birds outside my apartment heralding the dawn, I don't think about sleep. I wish they'd push the dawn back a few more hours. I'm not done with the night. I haven't laughed enough, haven't written enough, haven't loved enough.

I'm not headed anywhere but the ground when my heart stops beating. The horizon will disappear behind me like the eons that came before me. I got this time. No one knows when my egg-timer will ring. I'm not going to seize the day, nor will I live life to the fullest. I most certainly will not be living everyday like it's my last.  But I refuse to go to sleep early for work. Tomorrow morning, when my body feels like it's been put in a paint mixer, I'll drag my ass out of bed and smile on my way to work.

It's like Biggie says, "Stay humble. Stay working."   He didn't mean 9-5.