The speed at which time passes is clearly criminal. It seems to me that time flies at approximately one day per week. Thus what should be a solid fortnight of work and fun turns out to be, at least in the temporal rear-view mirror, a 48–hour stretch of frenzied, last-minute, bootless efforts and interminable lolling about. One [I] would think that the lazy-bugger-niente-achievo intervals of diminished chronological velocity should slow down the average tick-tock but for reasons unknown this is not the way it works. To put it more boringly: the speed of time is unconscionable. And yet, and yet. Conscion–it I should like to.
I can imagine an immediate objection and will try to adress it – that is, to be more specific: Ok, dear Chronomobile, lovely Clockwork Speed-fiend, how on earth [& in time] did I get from late december 12 to second quarter 13 only typing up three hair-raisingly paltry texts? How did I do so while only delving into a meagerly seven books [delving, not finishing the job]? Much less, as is blatant, in any way advance these dire cognitive faculties we human beings are pressed to make due with? You boost so heedlessly from one monday to the next that often I am under the impression that you only wish us to fulfill life’s elemental tasks: household chores, bread-winning [or losing, as the case may be], maintenance of basic social infrastructure [with or without fecebook, that’s it, fEce], animal necessities [even of the non–Marxian variety], leisure-time crumbs snatched from the swift wind of passage. Much like Bolt, you are too turbo for everybody, with the added drama that, generally speaking, we are meant to keep up. Leaving aside terminal pit-stops and the ambiguous blessings of absolute vagrancy.
100 meters, 100 years, it is all the sodding same.
Still and all, Time, Timeo the Quick, Timester, Timey-boy, let me not force you too badly into this mobilistic metaphor.
The real culprit, after all, is procrastination, the bed of Procrustes, I think. [Yes, there are yet slow days when one cannot be bothered w/ wiki.] I’ve been lying in it [which might or might not be mythico-metaphorically apt], swaddled in the smooth comfort of sloth.
The trick is to get one’s mind around to the idea that nothing matters all that much: if I do this or don’t do this, what could possibly be lost or gained? The very opposite of the mindset we appreciate in and demand from power plant employees and tech gadget producers. Oh the hypocrisies of being fully human! I manage to do this, pretend nothing signifies, in spells, grandly declaiming to myself that my typings are not worth their finger-movements because, poor-me, the bad ol’ world doesn’t pay them as much mind as a pop-star’s latest twiddlings & twaddlings. „Nothing matters, really. You can typofy this text or not; only a soul or two will skim and wrinkle their brows’, beseeching the gods they’d have done their laundry instead. And if you hadn’t read those books by so&so and what’s-his-fuck-? would everything have been so greatly different?“ [YES, YES, OF COURSE YOU FOOL! Imagine a life without having read „Herzog“? Imagine going a week without literary snobbery… Come on now, snap out of it!] But eysh, the sweet stupor of indolence – Not trying to figure out mine own jumbled, whimsical cogitations or what it is I think of the world, my alleged life [guilty until proven relevant], my family, friends & acquaintances of me [god forgive, me, not the others], the general state of affairs, that Boston bollockery [innocent until shot dead].
Instead, oh bliss, only coasting from one elementary task to the next [just picked the semi-dry laundry out the tumbler; memo to self: inform super of desiccation dysfunction], surfing the surges of everyday, what’s-it-again-?, life, right?, is the general consensus. Christ. It is a fabulous bed, Procrustes has invested in only the choicest of mattresses and once you lay down in it, find a snug position amid the fluffy stuffings of minimal effort, the grand speed of time’s arrow’s flight, the ride upon the shambolic, robotic horse of Chronos, becomes a much less fearsome experience. No more fear of flying, all the fun of lying.
Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present. – Bil Keane
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