Mourning the day

 

Mooncaloon

Proto credit: me

It seems like the older we get, the more normal it becomes for us to express surprise at the passage of time. From the most private of journals to the most viral of Youtube videos, we are all exclaiming:

Where has the time gone?

And so here is my voice, joining the chorus. At least being a cliche is fairly easy to live with.

Where has the time gone?

It feels like I only woke up an hour ago, with greasy hair and hungry. How did I manage to eat, shower, and put my make-up on seems unfathomable enough. That it’s past 5 PM already is mind-bending. Yet so it is. I seem to have gone through an entire day, where the most useful thing I did was going to get my windshield wipers fixed. (Because the shop didn’t change them before handover of the vehicle.)

Where has the time gone?

Of course, there were other things. I signed up for another half-marathon (I know, I know, I’ve got a problem), submitted some art for consideration, practiced my driving (badly, I’m sure.) I thought about my upcoming birthday and how I need to appreciate all the accomplishments that I have made. I thought about celebrating myself as I am, even if my writing probably makes me sound like a teenager instead of someone in her mid-20s. I thought about all the ways we devalue ourselves, big and small, day in and day out. And I still feel like crap.

Where has the time gone?

Does time go faster when you’re feeling sorry for yourself, or just when you’re struggling with a task?

Or is it the other way around? Does struggling with a task make time go slower and make you feel sorry for yourself?

The latter does seem to make more sense.

 

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