Time-squeezed

My days usually begin with hot toast, eggs, milk, almonds and a banana. 

If the kitchen shutters open to an air glazed with sunshine and a street filled with chatter, I play an Atif Aslam song or two. I stretch for fifteen minutes despite planning a session of thirty, but let it pass because some must be better than none.

I save the extra fifteen minutes for a quick doodle in my journal. The quick doodle turns into an elaborate pencil sketch. Who am I trying to be, Caravaggio?

My clothes aren’t ready for the day. In fact, they’re all hanging by the rack after last night’s laundry. I scan it for my least-recently worn combination, and make a quick pick. No one needs to know the socks I just chose are unpaired. I could wear my higher boots to cover them up… except they’re nowhere to be found. I reassure myself that my usual black canvases would be alright, even though they’d reveal my funky sock choice. I do go to an art school after all.

Phone calls and notifications take up to an hour and a half before I realize I don’t have enough time to deep condition my hair. All the luxuries of my bathroom’s glass screens, hot water and adjustable showerhead are lost in my rushed shower, and when I’m finally running to class with my pink and blue socks flashing like sirens, even the blazing heat cannot save my shirt from getting soaked under my undried hair quickly enough. 

Once again, 

so unsurprisingly,

I’m time-squeezed.