Feeling Timeaholic

I wish my mind were more like a secretary instead of the boss. "Here," I'd tell it, "write down whatever comes to you." Then I could go about my business and not resent losing time with my imagination. It's as if there is a separate part of my head that thinks it has all the time in the world--and that part is constantly creating beautiful writings that no-one will ever read--and there is no messenger or delivery person to carry it out here; because the other part of my head is thinking about what I'm doing out here. If I sit down and try to work with the boss--like a secretary--nothing comes. The boss seizes up and complains that I should be doing chores: cleaning, preparing, building, fixing, calling, answering, recording figures...the clock ticks and tocks like a metronome hooked up to an amplifier. I don't have time to even write this. Earlier, I considered exploiting my greatest weakness: that I am the most easily distracted worker bee in the hive. Then I heard a voice chide, "didn't I tell you you should never reveal your weaknesses?" Last night I wrote a letter to Osama, Bush, my father, the mayor, Ariel Sharon, a suicide bomber and Barbara Boxer. No I didn't. It was one letter to no-one who is everyone and that includes a child I will never have. I don't have time in this life for a child. Dear that, I meant to have you, but you wouldn't like it here anyway. Love, your never mother. You were supposed to be a poem. You were supposed to be a teacher. You were supposed to be unafraid and conquer the world. I thought Obama had hero potential. I saw him "interviewing" John Bolton, candidate for U.N. Ambassador to the U.S., on CSPAN and my dreams were slowly displaced like a handful of sawdust in a puff of wind. That was about as much hope as I had for that guy--and there it went. How the hell did Barbara Boxer make it so far without selling out? These are a few of the stupid questions that clutter my bosses desk. I need more time, I need more time, I need more time...