|Posted by email@example.com on April 17, 2020 at 6:10 AM|
“I’m sure you’ll agree, time is money.” He cooed confidently.
I laughed, repeating a bit mockingly, “time is money...”
He cocked his head confusingly, questioningly, without asking a thing.
“Time,” I began humoring his curiosity, ” is a force we don’t yet fully comprehend, but experience moment to moment in forward motion. Money, my friend, is an invention we imagined, materialized, and put a value on. They are no where near the same thing, it has simply become the common conscious agreement that the socioeconomically responsible thing to do is sell our experience of Time for Money.”
“How do you make money?” He was cautious in asking.
“I do what I want with my time and sell what I make to folks with the money to indulge in my bottomless imagination.” I answered somewhat abstractly.
“Ah, so, you’re an Author.” He replied, once again, so confidently.
The Painter in me was butt-hurt, but the Writer in me said, “Absolutely.”
Categories: True Stories