24 Hours

There are 24 hours in a day, right? More than enough time to fit everything in. So why do I never seem to either a) get everything done and b) actually achieve anything?

The older I've gotten, the more difficult I've found it has become to get up early and also, the slower I've grown. I'm not saying that I'm old - I'm really not but this is not a good sign for me future. Anyway, my point is I absolutely cannot get up any earlier. To write, to work out, to do housework. It takes me a while to get going in the morning as it is. Plus my kids get up at sparrows fart and trying to do productive things with them around is an artform I have yet to master.

I've gotten slow. Slow in body and slow in mind. And slow in enthusiasm. 

There's a corner in my front room that's full of stuff. Stuff I need to sort and file and tidy and shred and put in frames and hang and just do for goodness sake. I kinda like having this stuff around. It's like a physical comfort blanket. But, on the other hand, it's bloody annoying. It's a continual reminder that I suck. 

I live in a small flat. There's not much space for sprawling piles of stuff that one of these days is going to take on a life of its own and quite possibly has already got the beginnings of a black hole somewhere deep in the centre. I need to sort it out and yet at the end of every day, as I slump on the sofa, too tired to even look straight, I have not the desire nor the oomph to do anything about it.

Hence my questioning on the the hours in a day. How come I never seem to have any spare ones to sort out my sucking black hole? More tea? 

Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me.