Yesterday, someone commented on one of my drawings by noting that I had too much free time. It made me laugh and it made me think.
What is the opposite of free time? Slave time? Maybe there are people who have too much slave time, never allowing themselves to draw or write or dance or sing or do anything that pleases their soul.
Some people tell me they don’t have time, but time is all they have, all they’ll ever have, until it’s gone.
And when they have spare time, some people spend it worrying or stewing in anger. Some gossip, some complain, some go numb.
I have chosen to do this, and to draw, and to read, and to listen to music, and whatever else comes to mind.
If this is free time, then I don’t have too much of it. I have just enough, and I love it.
A Poem: Free Time
This is my free time, my me time,
my go climb a tree time,
my sing out with glee time,
my learn how to see time.
I’ve no time for slave time,
for go dig a grave time,
for sink in the waves time,
for learn how to cave time.
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
You tell ‘em, Steve. I love the new poem. I read a book this weekend and thought of you: Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. Have you read it yet? I’d love to discuss it with you.
Okay, but who’s Steve?
Ken! I mean Ken! What planet was I on!? Sorry about that. I meant Ken. KEN.
She must have been on cave time