Borrowed Time

I borrowed half an hour from work to write. Somewhere between a cup of coffee, a sleeping dog, pink roses, and books waiting patiently on the shelf, I realised that perhaps life itself is borrowed time. Maybe the least we can do is borrow a little of it back for ourselves.

I am sitting on the couch, furiously typing away the story I want to write. I glance at my phone and let out a little cry. I have exactly half an hour before the workday begins.

I ask for a cup of coffee, the much-needed stimulant to coax my sleepy receptors into action. My dog lies curled up beside me on the couch, blissfully indifferent to deadlines and calendars. I look at him and half smile, fighting the urge to scoop him up, curl back into the cushions, and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day.

Mrs. V hands me my coffee, and I gratefully wrap my hands around the warm mug, feeling the heat slowly seep through me.

Outside, I hear the wind chimes tinkle in the swaying breeze and imagine the balcony coming alive with fresh blooms. I have roses of every colour, but the pink rose bush holds a special place in my heart. I planted it after my father passed away. It has bloomed every single day since, and I can't help but feel there is a celestial gardener quietly tending to it.

The sky is fascinating to watch. Mostly blue, it is overlaid with soft streaks of grey, carrying with them the promise of rain later in the day.

Little strands of silver. Funny that I should write that, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.

I have a generous crop of hair myself, mostly black, with honey-blonde streaks woven through it and shimmers of silver. They are footprints of time gone by. A time when everyone was alive and the heart wasn't yet scarred by loss and disappointment.

I like to think of myself as low maintenance as possible, largely unbothered by vanity. Chemicals and inertia make for a smooth mix, and I am quite happy to let the grey remain.

Physical fitness, though, is a different matter. I take my fitness rather seriously.

The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere between intent and a spectacular capacity for inertia.

I look up at the clock on my screen.

Great.

A few minutes more.

My fingers race to keep pace with the sentences taking shape inside my head. At the same time, another part of my mind is already planning the day ahead, the deliverables, the meetings, and the books waiting patiently for me over the weekend.

There are no prizes for guessing that my favourite corner of the house is the one that holds the books. Friday has always been my favourite day of the week, not because it marks the end of work, but because Saturday is just around the corner. Late-night reading or an evening spent watching television are my favourite ways to unwind.

Not that I don't enjoy human company. I do. I enjoy meeting people, wandering around town, and lingering over long conversations. But if given a choice, I am more at home in pyjamas, with books all around me and dogs curled up beside me on the couch, happily scurrying down lanes made of words and more words.

I am an avid reader. It is the world I escape to when reality becomes frightening or flat, one-dimensional and devoid of colour.

My holy grail of inner peace.

I had promised myself half an hour.

It took a little longer.

I overran the deadline by a few minutes.

Half an hour is finite, all right. It is barely a speck. Yet this morning, I borrowed thirty minutes from work. Thirty minutes that belonged only to me.

And then it struck me.

Isn't life itself borrowed time?

None of it was ever truly ours to own. Every minute we are given is borrowed. We spend so much of it fulfilling obligations, chasing deadlines and worrying about the elusive tomorrow that we forget to borrow a little of it for ourselves.

For the things that make us come alive.

For the stories waiting to be written.

For the dance yet to be learnt.

For the books waiting to be read.

For the roses that bloom softly on our balconies.

For the dogs who remind us that an afternoon siesta is sometimes a perfectly reasonable ambition.

I borrowed half an hour.

And in doing so, I reminded myself to breathe.

Molecularly Yours,

Sanjana

Curiously Irrepressible  

First dreamer. Accidental chemist @ Green Molecule - Clean Confidently