Time stamps, 50ć a send.
Tales of last-minute sending, long lines at the post office, & the horrors of the last-minute un-updated christmas list, are what scares most disorganised leave-takers.
Whether that was the leave for the last person standing at the FAO schwartz counter, or the next best guidline to not submitting your new year exalts, there are salt-n-pepper grinds that contain the seeds of morrows.
Submitting the crucial feeds that sometimes settle the compromise of what is our very menial human reality, the essence of ticking those tocks — the sands of time dripping into the next vessel that begs the moments to slow down, and when crucially faced with a difficult situation or probably a really hot date needing tending at long last, the grand prix race to the end of the day.
Summoning the earliest accounts of our counting down, and finding time — these verbs seem in-effeicient and inadequate to command the control of that very mysterious but epicentre of all our lives, the fibre of binding the whole human race and its existence.
We continually absolve ourselves of this — in a maraudurous lie that we can “catch up”, “make up” or other phrases that lead to incredulous disasters, “maybe later”, or that dreaded “next time”. I think it may apply to things that have contingency-supplanted or proofed eloquent-timing-absconded with most of its sequence dependent on the wholesome-ness of the proposed agency of the situation: the more it attenuates or suspends, the more we re-count and relish, in memory.
Realising that we can probably extend — like a bad meatloaf, of yester-years- that which is in short supply, um, our time — for everyone is pretty much constant, and equal — there is now a mean of 60 to 70 years per person in the new millenia offered, (maintaining the daily habits that curtail the immediate, or accidental threats to shortening their occurrence) give or take 10 years.
All i’m saying is there is no need to cheat the clock.
There have been quite nasty turns in seasons, situations, and legal impediments that compound situations that are short on time already, but wouldn’t there be an equal exult to its actual consumption in the reality that we do have what we can naturally time-save with, theoretically? Our choices.
It isn’t all that graceful to admit that sometimes, we socially impediment ourselves with: the culturally stunted, reality-stricken, sincerity-hemmed, and serially deluded. Very extreme connotations that confront the very latitude that behests its mostly perceived /troughs/: tiny illegally taken morsels of time, and sifts the real time from its source of communality — wherever that is for your generation. But to continually contrast, the /crests/: high points to reasons for living, are some of the things that continue to prove itself worthy of that very precious resource indeed.
We just need to learn to be the sieve to its inevitability — and be more smart, in this case learning swiftly + a fairly reasonable percentage of luck, (which some cultures admit has some knead of karma into it allocated to our choosing to do bad unto others), to jostle with the individual need to compress, and elevate their daunting presence in each secretion — in proportion, ideally, to actual seepage.
But as it happens, more often than not, we place hope. That when we find the reason for begging time to slow down, then, it actually does.
And not find the painstaking formation of its contents, bound for nought.
