“I have no time” is perhaps the most frequently spoken sentence of our age. It sounds reasonable, polite, and socially acceptable. It closes conversations without appearing rude and excuses absence without demanding explanation. Yet beneath its calm surface, this phrase often hides a deeper truth. It is not that time has vanished from our lives. It is that our priorities have quietly shifted, and we hesitate to admit it, even to ourselves.
A few days ago, while walking on the road, I unexpectedly met my second generation cousin. We had not seen each other for nearly two years. The meeting was brief, awkward, and strangely formal. As we exchanged pleasantries, the familiar phrase surfaced on both sides. Life is busy. There is no time. We promised to meet again, knowing well that this promise might dissolve into the noise of daily routines. As we parted ways, memories from childhood flooded my mind. We once played hide and seek until dusk. We shared lunches, dinners, biscuits, and toffees with innocent generosity. We fought, laughed, and reconciled within minutes. Back then, time seemed abundant, almost endless. Today, despite faster transport, instant communication, and digital convenience, we meet after years. The question then arises. Has time truly become scarce, or have we simply learned to excuse ourselves with elegance?
The truth is uncomfortable. Time has not shortened. Our days still carry twenty four hours. What has changed is how we allow those hours to be consumed. The mobile phone, undoubtedly a remarkable blessing, stands at the center of this transformation. It connects us across continents, educates us within seconds, and empowers voices that were once unheard. Yet paradoxically, it has also placed invisible distances between people who live just streets apart. Social media applications promise connection, but often deliver distraction. A simple intention to scroll for five minutes quietly expands into hours. When we finally look up, the day has slipped away unnoticed. Time has not ended. It has been constricted, compressed, and quietly stolen. This digital absorption reshapes our perception of life itself. Weeks pass like days, and years feel like yesterday’s headlines. Events that once marked seasons now blur into a continuous stream of notifications, reels, and updates. We are present everywhere online, yet absent in the physical spaces that once defined community and belonging. Relatives become profile pictures. Friendships are reduced to reactions. Conversations shrink into emojis. In such a world, saying “I have no time” becomes easier than admitting that we allowed our attention to be fragmented. There was a time when human connection was not scheduled but spontaneous. People bathed in rivers, not for photographs, but for the simple rhythm of life. Riverbanks echoed with laughter, gossip, and shared silence. Children ran freely, inventing games like hide and seek that required imagination, movement, and human presence. Today, those riverbanks are quieter, and playgrounds are often replaced by glowing screens. Children sit absorbed in mobile phones, watching endless reels. Even newly born babies are pacified with screens before they learn the comfort of human voices. Silence is purchased at the cost of presence. We often justify this transformation in the name of progress. We say the world has become demanding, competitive, and fast. While there is truth in this claim, it does not fully explain our emotional distance from one another. Technology did not steal our time by force. We offered it willingly, minute by minute, notification by notification. The polite lie of “I have no time” protects us from confronting this reality. It sounds kinder than saying, “I did not choose you today.” This realization is not meant to romanticize the past or demonize technology. The goal is balance and awareness. Time, like money, reflects values. We find time for what we consider important. If relationships fade, it is not due to the absence of time but due to the absence of intentionality. Five minutes of genuine presence can mean more than hours of distracted coexistence. A call, a visit, or a shared meal can restore bonds that years of digital interaction fail to sustain.
Perhaps it is time to challenge this polite lie, starting with ourselves. Instead of saying “I have no time,” we might ask a more honest question. Where is my time going? Who is silently losing me to a screen? Reclaiming time does not require abandoning technology, but mastering it. It requires choosing people over pixels, moments over metrics, and presence over performance.
In the end, time is not something we lack. It is something we spend. And like all spending, it reveals who and what truly matters.

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