A relationship with Time, and how it shapes us.
What would happen if I would rid myself of my perverse obsession with time? I find myself staring at the ticking clock, feeling the rush of hours passing by, eyes pinned on the movement. Each tick is some time lost. This dissatisfaction exists in me not because there is something inherently wrong with time being an existing entity, the problem lies instead within my innate fixation on it. To not be able to grasp my time and hold it close to me makes each day flying by feel like a diminished form of loss.
When I guess, work out my problems as though I am my own psychologist (analysing is fantastic), this perverse obsession comes from the losses I have experienced, combined with dreams I want to make a reality. It is a strange form of love, stemming from the desire to make beautiful things last forever, strengthened by the intimate relationship I have forged with Loss.
For as long as I can remember, my mind has performed a trick to make me hold onto places I know I will not set foot in again. No matter where I am or what I am doing, I am constantly fed with flashing images of those places. They flicker in my mind for a couple of seconds, then vanish to make room for the next. An image of the living room in my mother’s old apartment will be followed by bushes in the corner of the garden of my aunt’s villa in Belgium. The classroom in which I learned my ABC’s, that camping we went to in Spain when I turned 12, my bedroom on Paulton’s Square in London — all these places I will never again see with my own two eyes, but my unconscious refuses to lose them to Time, and so it forces the memories into my mind day after day. And it is beautiful, for if I did not have this habit, I would scarcely remember the feel and significance of any of these places.
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Sometimes, it feels as though I am trapped in a world that needs a constant schedule. This, to me, seems like the loss of time rather than a gain. To figure out what needs to be done in a day is all fine and well, of course, for we would happily lay in bed all day other wise (there is no way I would wrestle my way out of my sleeping lover’s arms if I did not have things I wanted to do and get done), but we seem so obsessed with perfecting our use of time that we forget to feel who we are, what we are, what is happening around us and within us.
I find myself staring at the clock for minutes on end. What if I am too late? What if I spend too much time doing this? What if this hour passes more swiftly than I would like, and then when it is over it is so far gone that I can hardly bring it back with my memory of it alone?
It is a vicious cycle of needless questions that cannot be answered by asking them time and time again. “What if”-questions are hardly ever helpful. They instil worry in places where we could have felt creativity and love instead. Granted, they are great fuel for writing — they may even be the reason I write at all — but they often break more than they mend.
How did I become this way? How did I learn to respect the clock more than the activity that I am doing? In example, it matters to me how long I spend on my workouts, so much so that I feel more satisfaction when I walk out of the gym and see that no more than an hour has passed than I feel pride for allowing myself to do all that gentle suffering.
I offer myself time frames in which to write, rather than a state of mind that allows the words to flow and pour, regardless of the counting minutes. It is obscene.
There are a few things that have me so wholly engrossed in the endeavour of doing them that I forget to watch my clock. One of these things is reading a good book. Good of course is subjective, as I may enjoy non-fiction in the morning and find no satisfaction in it at night. But when I have found the pages to match my mood, I cannot, will not stop until my eyes tire and I fear the words will pass through me rather than settle within me. This is beautiful.
Walks are similar. When I am out in nature, or in a city that has a magic to it, I will walk until my legs can step no more and I will not care about the hours that have passed. I did this in London for most of my free time, regardless of weather. I would go out with my ‘writer’s bag,’ within which was my wallet, a New Yorker Magazine or book, my notebook, a pen, a bottle of water and sometimes some clutter. It is a fairly small bag, however, so the clutter was diminished effortlessly whenever it got in the way.
With my feet out the door, I would find the Thames and stride along its gentle waves. The sight has never ceased to amaze me, and I miss it still. When I would go out, I often went without a plan, all I knew is how good it felt to walk and I would go wherever London’s sights, scents, music, and people would take me. Most of my walks would start with going from Chelsea, where I lived, to Soho. From then, I was free to go into whichever alley felt right. This is how I found my favourite coffee shop (TAP №193, on Wardour Street, which I was lured into by its very true “better coffee” sign), and it was the only way I knew to spend my days in a manner that would feel satisfying to me. I would not care if I came home at 8 p.m. or 1 a.m., so long as I got to watch the city live.
I did not care about time then as I care about time now. And I do not want to care about time now as I do care about it, for it bereaves me of the beauty that comes from being engrossed in something wholly, careless of what happens elsewhere, even if it is a mere 5 metres away. Let me rid myself of my obsession with the clock. Let me live, instead. Allow me to pour myself into what my life wants to be, rather than the demands of time ticking by.
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I will leave you with Kurt Vonnegut, who ultimately said it best,
“ Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”
