Life Is Not Enough

All the books I want to read.

All the stories I want to write.

All the places I want to go.

All the things I want to do.

Time slips through my fingers, and I clench my fists until my knuckles turn white, but the precious grains of sand keep escaping. The wind picks them up and carries them away, mocking me.

“Catch me if you can.”

Of course, I can’t.

Another day gone. Another week, another month.

Another story left untold.

Another path not explored.

Isn’t it cruel—that here it is, this enormous, fascinating, delicious world—so tempting, so mouthwatering—yet you can’t bite off more than you can chew?

“There are no limits!” My immortal soul squeals in delight.

“Oh, yes, there are.” The earthly body glances at the watch. “No time for this today, my dear. We’re on a schedule, mind you. Chop-chop.”

They’ll come at night, in my dreams. Exciting, untold stories.

Wondrous, undiscovered places.

All the might-have-beens and could-have-dones.

They’ll leave me in the morning, as I open my eyes, with a pang in my heart and a faint shadow of regret.

Regret for what wasn’t meant to be.

What wasn’t on the schedule.

Chop-chop.