My time is not my time

My time is not my time, it’s borrowed.   I borrow time from my mother and from my dog.  It’s not important, it can be disturbed, interrupted and it can end unpredictably without rhyme or reason.  I can start something having said I’m going to do just that, and 98% of the times my time is disrupted.  I feel it’s almost a lack of respect and consideration on the part of the animal and the mother.  And yet… they don’t seem to notice this, they don’t give it importance.  It irritates me so much, I just can’t tell you.  It is only when I’m in the shower that my time is my time, and I get to think and pamper myself.  For at bedtime I need to spend time to nurture my dog, who sleeps with me, and then... it is finally, my time.  And I cherish that time so much that I can’t fall asleep, for I need to make use of this precious time.  When I come to think of it, my time has seldom been my time during my long 67 year old life.  Solitude is something I yearn for; I thirst for, a time to reflect, to finish a thought.  Like, right now, I’m writing this at one of those rare times when I have not been interrupted.  But, let me tell you dear people, that I had to go down three times to accommodate their needs and make sure they understood that it was my time to pay bills and that they needed to fend  for themselves.  Then, as I finished the bills, the thought of my time came to me.  Time is so precious, and I know I will later long for these interruptions.  Somewhere in time when I’m by myself and I find peace and solace in the quietness of my thoughts, without disturbance, without irritations, without having to get up and tend to someone else’s needs.