Chap­ter II intro­duces the read­er to an idea that feels both famil­iar and frustrating—the sense that there’s nev­er quite enough time to do what one tru­ly wants. The author starts by acknowl­edg­ing a hypo­thet­i­cal fig­ure who seems per­fect­ly con­tent with how they use their twen­ty-four hours. This per­son sup­pos­ed­ly bal­ances work, leisure, and self-devel­op­ment with­out strug­gle. If such indi­vid­u­als exist, they are rare. Most peo­ple, the author argues, feel a nag­ging sense of dis­sat­is­fac­tion, even when life appears full. This feel­ing does­n’t arise from lazi­ness or fail­ure but from the recog­ni­tion that our time is being con­sumed in ways that don’t always align with our deep­er desires. The author admits that he has nev­er per­son­al­ly met any­one ful­ly con­tent with their time use, high­light­ing how uni­ver­sal this con­cern is. Beneath every­day rou­tines lies a qui­et, per­sis­tent restlessness—a long­ing that lingers even in moments of com­fort.

This unease, far from being a flaw, is seen as a sign of vital­i­ty. It sug­gests that the desire to achieve, to expe­ri­ence more, or to grow, nev­er tru­ly fades. Even the busiest per­son car­ries with­in them a sense of unfin­ished business—a voice that whis­pers of books unread, ideas unpur­sued, or skills nev­er explored. The author doesn’t crit­i­cize this long­ing. Instead, he embraces it as evi­dence of an active spir­it. Much like a trav­el­er set­ting off on a jour­ney, the human mind thrives when it’s mov­ing toward some­thing mean­ing­ful. This metaphor of a pil­grim­age serves to dis­tin­guish between two kinds of lives: those who jour­ney and those who stand still. To strive, even slow­ly, is to live ful­ly. But when a per­son believes there’s no time to begin, they remain frozen in place, caught between rou­tine and regret.

It’s not the size of the goal that matters—it’s the deci­sion to begin the jour­ney at all. The long­ing to do some­thing greater with one’s hours exists in near­ly every­one, yet many sup­press it out of habit or res­ig­na­tion. But no cal­en­dar or work sched­ule can remove this inner push to expand beyond dai­ly duties. Peo­ple may go to work, run errands, or han­dle respon­si­bil­i­ties, yet some­thing with­in them still seeks con­nec­tion to mean­ing. The chap­ter acknowl­edges that this instinct does­n’t always scream; some­times, it speaks in qui­et moments of bore­dom or late-night thoughts. Left ignored, it can become a source of low-grade anx­i­ety. But when act­ed upon—even in small doses—it becomes ener­giz­ing. The author sees this not as self-indul­gence but as a response to an ancient, deeply human need.

This ten­sion between oblig­a­tion and aspi­ra­tion is not new. It echoes through every era, every cul­ture. At some point, peo­ple feel pulled toward pur­suits that don’t fit neat­ly into their sched­ules. They want to learn a lan­guage, play an instru­ment, write a book, or sim­ply under­stand them­selves bet­ter. None of these things are essen­tial in the same way as earn­ing a pay­check or feed­ing a fam­i­ly, yet they feel essen­tial nonethe­less. That para­dox is what the chap­ter explores. By ignor­ing this desire, peo­ple often expe­ri­ence a hol­low kind of success—externally com­plete but inter­nal­ly unfin­ished. And yet, when the desire is acknowl­edged and act­ed upon, even a lit­tle, the effects can rip­ple out­ward. A per­son becomes more atten­tive, more alive, and often more effec­tive in their reg­u­lar duties.

The key lies in rec­og­niz­ing that time is not found—it is made. Every day has untapped min­utes, often buried under dis­trac­tions or assump­tions about what “must” be done. The chap­ter doesn’t pre­tend that all oblig­a­tions can be swept aside. But it does argue that most peo­ple can reclaim frag­ments of time with­out dis­man­tling their lives. These frag­ments, stitched togeth­er with inten­tion, form space for the soul. It’s in these qui­et reclaimed hours that books are read, thoughts are deep­ened, and per­son­al goals take shape. The author doesn’t sug­gest dra­mat­ic life changes but encour­ages read­ers to lis­ten to their rest­less­ness and act gen­tly upon it. Small, con­sis­tent effort can grad­u­al­ly shift the entire rhythm of a day.

What makes this chap­ter stand out is its under­stand­ing of human psy­chol­o­gy. It doesn’t dis­miss the reader’s con­straints but invites them to ques­tion their assump­tions about time. Every­one has demands placed upon them, but not every­one choos­es how to meet those demands with a sense of pur­pose. By illus­trat­ing that the act of striving—no mat­ter how humble—adds mean­ing to life, the author gives per­mis­sion to dream with­in struc­ture. This idea chal­lenges the notion that peace is found in ease or free­dom from respon­si­bil­i­ty. Instead, peace is linked to move­ment, to the qui­et joy of work­ing toward some­thing more. The chap­ter clos­es not with answers but with an invi­ta­tion: rec­og­nize the jour­ney with­in your days, and start walk­ing, even if it’s just a sin­gle step.

And so, read­ers are left with a pow­er­ful truth—what they seek is not out of reach, just out of rou­tine. Time, though lim­it­ed, becomes enough when shaped with inten­tion. And the deep yearn­ing for some­thing more is not a prob­lem to be fixed, but a sig­nal to be fol­lowed.