A piece written in adaptation to first few lines of lyrics from the song "Early bird" by Mark Knopfler.
He was a man run by the force of time; had no time to rest, didn't even own a single piece of literature as he felt as if reading was a waste of time, because why would you spend your time reading about other people's lives rather than living your own and making your own stories. "You read for pleasure, or to gain insight on how others live" I would tell him. "But why would I do that?" he would argue back. "Why would I submerge my thoughts into fiction and let myself morph into someone else's life. I have my own life which I intend to live." And with that I couldn't find anything to argue back with. For someone who was ruled by time, one would assume a sense of organisation to be matched with him. That would be a false accusation to say the least. With clothes sprawled across his bedroom floor as a result of a closet busting through the hinges, he would often call me in a panic asking where his favourite pair of scuffed and ton sneakers might be. "Have you checked behind the pot plant? Maybe Tubs moved it again." Tubs was the cat who often moved things. Despite his name he wasn't actually all that tubby, he was quite slim. Probably because we would take him for walks down the road, whenever we wished we had gotten a dog. I would usually hear some rummaging, then silence for a moment before hearing "You were right. Damn Tubs. Should have bought a Beagle." His lifestyle was so messily in order, just like him. He lived a simple yet structured life, only being ruled by time- which I guess really ruled him in the end. I'm glad that I was part of this giant mess that was his life, and I'm glad that I could say that he was my mess. I just wish that I had an ounce of the realisation of time that he had so I would have been able to tell him that.