Time has been weighing on my mind lately.
Time, during its uncaring march, betrays us: filling the gamut of roles from stringent prison warden to escapee throughout our lives. Only the magnanimous guard for long enough to delude us into thinking we’ll have enough—time.
Yes, the ol’ time is a prison metaphor. Derivative, I know, but so damned appropriate for how I feel. See, a few months ago I woke up twenty eight. I’m not sure how it happened, probably too much toilet wine. That’s when I incited a prison riot: drink more, sleep less and go absolutely nowhere. I did it all just to catch up to my erstwhile chum: the one that convinced me the gift of youth lasts as long as you embrace it and to renounce it would most certainly be downfall. And when the realization sinks in that you can’t keep pace any longer, another protest begins: eschewing cigars, gambling, fats, processed meats, sugars and embracing freak’n teetotalism. A changing of the guard.
Old man time, the warden that prevented me from staying out late, driving, voting or buying a six pack, that asshole that had me wishing away my childhood is now my charge; the role of warden is foist upon me and the slippery little bastard keeps trying to run off.
Okay, I agree, time to drop the metaphor. Unfortunately, the passage of time (can) be a cruel reality. In my case I was far too cavalier with its dispense and not quick enough to recover my losses. I wasted it on frivolity, only to realize in my third year of undergrad that it would cost me a career. I squandered it on self-interest only to realize I let the best thing that ever happened to me walk away, six months after she (rightfully) refused to talk to me. Unfortunately, she had the misfortune of being witness to the riot.
I need to staunch the bleeding. And as is protocol with existential crises, a line in the sand must be drawn. I am confident that for the rest of my life this moment will demarcate what was an extended childhood from a long-overdue (if not admittedly reluctant) acceptance of adulthood. Yes, you heard it here first: I am a grown-ass man. It really is that easy. Well, no, it isn’t. But I’m trying to be encouraging.
And as a newly anointed adult I’m going to make the most of my time. It can’t be the same as before but it will be appreciated so much more.
At the tail end of my little crisis I realised that time could be outwit to some degree. Unique moments and vivid memories are like obstructions in that little terd’s boot-step, disrupting its calculated and merciless constancy. Do and see as much as you can because those are the memories that anchor a mind and make time seem a little less potent.
And yes, you might think a blog to be a bit underwhelming but it’s a step in a direction—for someone who was directionless mere weeks ago. Even before I wanted to be a doctor (the career I pissed away) I wanted to write. I was even blessed with a natural aptitude for it, or so they told me. Fear kept me from pursuing and practising my desired craft; fear of my own shortcomings, fear of what other people would think. The latter band-aid is being pulled off gently: for now I choose to write and post under a pseudonym. For all its foulness one of the Internet’s advantages is it allows for a democratic kind of catharsis. I intend to post on all manner of subjects as well as upload short stories and other pieces from past and present. Please enjoy, or, in true democratic spirit—don’t. I look forward to comments and critiques but abstention is also an option; so, in other words, you’re free to sod off if nothing suits your fancy. ‘Cause I plan on catharting all over the place.
Post-script: In case you were wondering, the name of this website originates from a Kurt Vonnegut Jr. quote. Mr. Vonnegut is unequivocally my favourite author and the line from his novel Slaughterhouse- Five, “Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why” strikes a poignant resonance with how I feel: like I’m immured in some translucent chrysalis that’s obfuscating my view of the world and mobility within it, all while time seems to whiz past. That wasn’t another prison metaphor, I swear.