What’s in a year?
Well a lot, but maybe nothing at all. Days, weeks, and months pass by in what feels like a blink of an eye. You are filled up to the gills with business, rushing around, tinkering with some odd thing or another. Yet nothing seems to ever happen, nobody seems to do anything. Am I going mad in noticing this? We have never been as busy as we currently are, and yet we seem to have never done less, or see each other less. I miss you. All of you.
The loss and slipping of time is impossible to document or track. The time forever feels fleeting, yet nights are spent locked up at home or ambling away on some meaningless task. The administrative work of life is so endless that the activities, the moments, the memories, the good times all feel supplementary. You lose the moments that cross directly in front of your eyes, without ever acknowledging them as such. I do not know how this happens. I do not know when it started, or when it got so constant. But it has grown and grown like the nastiest of infected sores surrounding our world. I shoot less than I ever have, write less than ever before. But I could not tell you what my time is filled with instead. Nobody can.
We all seem to lean into mindless comforts, more and more each day. We feel warm here, and do not venture beyond anything anymore. The unpredictability becomes too much. Until even the smallest excerpts of action are exhausting. Until any endeavour feels too much, too judgey, too cringe to even consider, let alone pursue. It is endless. The fear of the other it began as, but now we have made it a fear of ourselves. We build judgment days and reckonings, taking place in our own heads but nowhere else.
I hope to be back more now. I want to reset my mind within these digital walls, and remind myself what it is that I am doing with my time. Rather than others controlling my time and existence, I would like to document my own. Creating, not consuming. Spending time and energy on making my own, not servicing another. This may make less sense by the day, but it captures my mind now. I want to be able to look back and see how my brain worked then, how it works later. Maybe it will be uncomfortable to look at one day. Maybe it will be cringe. But I believe that is a good thing. It suggests growth. Growth that the current you could never be like the old you.
Thank you for observing the chaos as it unfolds
I wrote this when I was young. When I was dumb. Maybe I still am. Maybe 33 year old me will look back and cover his face reading what I write today the same way. But it is still me, and it is still here.
“Different This Time”
The Earth keeps spinning.
The movement of life can’t be silenced, it roars in your ears when you try to forget it.
Life itself is subject to change,
Yet Orion seems affixed to the sky.
Can I trust anything that is uttered?
When life passes in fleeting moments, bare instances.
Why bother opening for business when the drive-thru streams with cars,
Yet no exchange of currency.
There is a scarcity in vulnerability, a drought on openness.
But somehow, never too little heartache.
There is a surplus stock of broken dreams,
Kept tucked behind kind eyes and lost memories.
This time won’t mean next time.