This feels like the prelude.
I’m hesitating, sitting in the driver’s seat. Not ready to start the car even though the key is already in the ignition. I’m under the covers, my eyes still closed, so keenly aware of the morning light peeking into my room. I’m standing on the platform between two opposing train tracks, one moving so slow that it makes me impatient, the other one moving forward out of sight, just ever slightly too fast. I don’t think I want to know what’s around the corner yet. I glance down at my feet, double checking they’re where I think they’re supposed to be. Gravity is planting them on the ground beneath me. My mind races ahead.
The days are passing but my body is always a split second behind.
Without fail, January always feels like an abrupt slowdown after the go-go-go rush of the holidays. Life is suddenly moving at a glacial pace. (I’m sure that’s partly why someone decided to make February an extra-short month.) Though the daylight hours are supposedly getting longer, the promise of spring still feels slightly out of reach.
There is no rushing the seasons.
Half of my social circles disappear for these few months of the year – whether to retreat (hibernate) indoors or escape to warm destinations. I’ve often been the latter, strategically planning my leave from this dreaded grey-filled wintertime. But this time around, I’ve had a quiet, restful, and dare I say…boring start to this year.
That was intentional. Because my travel schedule was so intensive the second half of last year, I knew I needed to start this year off with few commitments on the calendar.
And I live, breathe, will probably die by my calendar. I flip through it on the daily to look at my upcoming plans, making sure I have things to look forward to. If I don’t, what can I add? A concert? A dinner reservation?
Does anticipation make time move faster or slower?
With many friends out of the city, my days and evenings have been freer than usual, and I’ve found myself alone more often than not. Being alone isn’t something I mind, but it’s a state of being that makes me incredibly more conscious (and critical) of how I spend my time.
So the days pass. The hours feel empty when I fixate on the idea – the potential – of what else I could be doing. (And what is everyone else doing?) And before I can do something with all this time on my hands, the sun is set, and I sink back onto the couch for another quiet night in. The motivation has passed.
Some evenings, I’ll let my brain go on autopilot. Tune out any adulting obligations, almost forget what day or time it is. Turn instead to my easy distractions and watch video after video on autoplay. I lay in bed scrolling through my camera roll, remembering if and when I did anything interesting. I walk mindlessly through this part of Brooklyn until I’m ready to return home.
Those are the winter days that feel endless in a mindnumbing way – antithetical to the bliss of long please never end summer days (the days that are over before you were ready to let them end, no matter your efforts in trying to prolong them).
And even if we know time is a force we can’t control, we still try to break it down into pieces we can understand and measure: a day into hours into minutes into seconds, a year into months into weeks into days. Yet how we actually experience time internally…it seems immeasurable.
We have so much time when we’re younger and can afford to be bored. So little time when we’re older and lamenting how we spend it. And I’ve never cared too much about my actual age (it really is just a number), but I do feel a little obsessive about knowing where my time goes – ensuring my time spent is meaningful – anxious to have things to show for my time. Is it really a valuable life if I don’t have a fulfilling and filled life to show for it?
Though it’s not always so deep. I look for the smallest signs of hope to tell me time is passing during this daily winter mundanity. When I open the fridge to grab milk for my latte, the carton is almost empty – save for one last pour. On the coldest nights, I light a candle and watch the flame slowly burn the wick down into a pool of nothingness. Every Friday I open up Spotify to listen through my favorite artists’ new singles on my Release Radar.
I’m trying to stop wrestling with time. I’m holding it lightly, but I’m still reluctant to let it out of my grasp. Trusting time has a way it’s meant to move forward with me. Letting it take the driver’s seat so I can enjoy the passenger’s view for a little while. Trying to accept this force of life will always operate completely of its own volition.
Time is a paradox, but I guess my wants are just as paradoxical. I find my foot tapping out of restless wanting for a noisier season, yet I wake up and relish in these weekend mornings with zero commitments. I tell myself I’m not in the business of controlling time as I click between 50 tabs of my calendar and flight options, ready to book anything anywhere. Maybe each day isn’t meant to feel memorable. I just don’t want the days to blend endlessly into each other.
Life is but an ebb and flow. I’m wishing you all a cozy respite this evening – may we all enjoy this wintry time as a soft place to land.
Listening to a little more time - role model
Watching Euphoria season 2 (I know I know, I’m late)
Thinking about apricity
Dreaming about Paris in the spring…