I Don't Have the Time
The following is two short stories about two individuals, both named John. One of them has a lot of time. The other does not.
It is up to you to determine who is who.
Just forty-five minutes ago, he was a few pounds lighter. Shivering from the cold, John took off his drenched coat and set it aside on a nearby chair. It felt like taking off heavy chain mail, something which John knew much about. All males above the age of twelve in his town were required to partake in combat training due to the ever-present possibility of a border skirmish.
As he had expected, he was one of the few there. Heavy rain was when John preferred to go to the library, for that was when the least amount of people were willing to make the journey there. And less people meant more books available. It was early in the morning—not ten minutes past seven—but John was not one to waste any time. He immediately proceeded to scour the collection of books in order to find what he was looking for. Almost fifteen minutes later, he had finally found it. It was torn and beat-up, but it was more precious than gold to John. An observer from behind might have thought that he was holding his own infant the way he held and longingly looked at the book. It was John's dream to own this particular book one day, but his father did not have the means to afford it. Oh, how he longed for this book, to have its information at the tips of his fingers!
His father was a good man, working long hours everyday (aside from the Lord's Day) to provide for his family. Normally on a Saturday, John would be at the shop with him, helping with the family business. Today was John's birthday, however, and his father allowed him to go to the library provided he would return for dinner. Any opportunity to go to the library was an opportunity not squandered by John.
At a nearby desk, he got to work. If he could not own the book itself, then he could at least bring the words back home. Not many knew how to write well in his town, but John was blessed to have received training from his mother when he was a young boy. Ahhh, those were the happiest times of his life. Yes, for that was when his mother was still alive; she had died a couple years ago from an illness during a particularly harsh winter. He still remembered her warm smile, the familiar smells in the kitchen, the laughter that filled the house. Every day, she would set aside half an hour with John to work on calligraphy, and that was always his favorite part of the day. He remembered on one occasion when he had accidentally spilled ink all over his new trousers (trousers which his mother had spent many days making). His younger sister, of course, thought this was hilarious; Mother not so much. On another occasion, he and his sister—
His mind jolted back to the present as he realized the past few words he had written were not being written at all. He reached back into the ink bottle with his quill to redip it. Running low, he thought. He would have to stop by the shop on the way home and pick up another bottle of ink.
It was already getting dark by mid-afternoon, for it was winter, and John took that as his cue to start packing up and get going. He couldn't write much longer even if he wanted to, for there is only so much one can see with candle light. He was somewhat pleased with the progress he had made that day, copying more than one hundred pages. To say his wrist was fatigued would be an understatement, and his stomach growled as he had skipped both breakfast and lunch, but it was all worth it. He put the encyclopedia back where he found it, put everything else into his bag, and set off for the trek back home.
He would have preferred to sleep a couple more hours, but the sunlight seeping through the blinds of his bedroom pierced his eyes. Groaning, he checked his smartphone next to him. 12:30 PM. John laid there for a few more minutes before finally setting both feet on the floor. It was a Saturday, and Americans didn't work on Saturdays. Thank God, he thought, for John was exhausted from a tough week at work. He had had to work a couple hours overtime on Thursday, and he was still somewhat recovering from it.
Seeing it was already past noon, John decided to skip a formal breakfast. He opened his refrigerator and looked inside. Running low, he thought. He booted up his computer and opened a web browser; a few minutes later, a pizza was on its way to the front door of his apartment building.
When he got back to his apartment room after getting the pizza from downstairs, he noticed he was somewhat out of breath. Man, I gotta get into shape. Go to the gym or something. And he really would go, but he was a busy man, and he didn't have the time. You see, it was true that Americans didn't work on Saturdays, but John had recently decided to pick up reading and writing as hobbies. While many might spend their Saturdays out partying or doing God knows what, he had decided to be a productive man and do something worthwhile with his Saturdays. This is why he didn't have any time.
It was a little past 1:30 PM when he had finished his lunch. The goal for today was to complete a write-up for one chapter of the book he was reading. A few paragraphs, a few hundred words. Shouldn't take long. His whole Saturday was free, so perhaps he would even finish two chapter write-ups. He got to work immediately—that is, immediately after checking his email, some news sites, and replying to everybody that had contacted him that morning.
Quite a few hours later, the number of YouTube videos that he had watched was greater than the number of words he had typed for his write-up. He had become distracted for the past few hours, but it was an honest mistake that happened to everybody. No man can really be expected to focus for hours at a time, can he? He got up for a quick stretch and also to turn on the lights, for it had become dark outside. John closed the YouTube videos and really got to work this time.
Around 11:30 PM was when John decided to call it quits on writing for the day. He was somewhat pleased with the progress he had made that day, typing more than one hundred words. He had not accomplished the goal that he had set out for himself that morning of completing the write-up, but he was not worried, for he could always finish it up Monday night. Feeling satisfied, he turned off the computer. After a frozen dinner and a shower, the day was coming to a close.
He turned on the lamp next to his bed, grabbed the book on the nightstand, and sat on his bed. He loved to end the day by reading from biographies of great men of the past. He found it inspiring hearing the tales of their lives, the hardships and trials they endured, the feats they accomplished. It was like a beckoning to greatness. "Look what I did with my life. Now your turn."
As his head lay on the pillow that night, he pondered in the dark the same thing he had pondered many times before, which is how in the world these great men of old accomplished so much with so little. Undoubtedly, John recognized that the modern world provided so much more comfort, resources, and ease of living, yet his accomplishments didn't show for it. Was it the caliber of man that made the difference? The discipline, the will?
I just don't have the time, he thought to himself. He fell asleep around 3:30 AM after watching a few more YouTube videos on his smartphone.