It is midnight. The grey area between the 19th 20th of April.

I am sitting at home, refreshed after 6 hours of sleep, which attests to how dysfunctional my bio clock has become. Yet as I write this, a heavy yawn punctuates this sentence. I contradict myself again.

I have to read more, I do, I do. I am dissatisfied with so many things, perhaps the answer lies in books yet untouched. It is not that there is no time, but rather the self-delusion that I am busy that keeps me from indulging in a book. That there is no time is utter rot and nonsense, I would agree with hadri on this one. Time, is never a factor, you can do only as much as you are prepared to. After all, do we not study in philosophy that Time is a human concept?