The clock.

It is a rare moment that I sit alone with my thoughts. A fire burns gently beside me, powered by invisible gas - warmth that continues indefinitely, effortlessly enabled by the push of a button. 

I sit in a magnificent home - one which exceeds my expectations, and feels foreign. My family rests above me in the bedroom, presumably gaining strength and enjoying their dreams. For the moment, they feel foreign - in the land of sleep, while I remain awake. 

My own moments are far and few between. I wake to the gentle nudge or grating shrill of an alarm, faced immediately with the pressure of the clock. On days when the office isn’t demanding my attention, a child will be tugging and grasping for it. 

I move from one moment of responsibility to another - always on the clock.

This is truly a rare gift - a fleeting sense of freedom, of control. 

As quickly as it emerged, it dissipates. I may control these words - but not the timeline in which they are created. The clock constantly reminds me that I’m on borrowed time; this freedom tonight is only stolen from tomorrow’s responsibility. 

Back on the clock.