I brought up the curtain on and cut the ribbon of my new blog last Tuesday night and I must admit: I was extremely enthusiastic about the whole new concept of publishing my work on a perhaps even daily basis. But then common prejudice impudently stepped in and demolished my whole beaming aura of eagerness: maybe sometimes it’s better to not seem too keen. That’s common belief for you: rather erroneous and vile; I was about to not post anything on Wednesday just not to come across as overly fervent, but I did not, however, succumb to the utterly ridiculous fear of exposing my passions. I did not write anything in the end merely because I was far too busy with other matters . I quote myself on this: “I didn’t have time”.
And that split-second, micro-thought unleashed a labyrinthine series of considerations on the concept of time and about how we often claim to not have enough of it. FALSE! In terms of procrastination, in my opinion, a sheer lack of time cannot count as a valid excuse and I’ll adduce an example from my own life to show people how it is indeed possible to create time where it would otherwise least likely be found.
My dad works an awful lot; he sacrificed a lot – time, hobbies, leisure – to provide for his family. Nevertheless, over the past few years he has developed a rather peculiar talent, of which I, personally, am rather envious: he manages to scavenge around a confined space, id est the 24 hours that constitute our day, and chisel and scrape off any portion of time that could prove itself fruitful. He started exercising on a rigorously regular basis, be it before going to work, during his lunch break or upon returning home after a long and draining day of work. He found time for that – time that perhaps others would struggle to find, when caught up in a six-day-a-week, 10-hour-a-day job. I consider that in itself a feat; but the master stroke is yet to come.
I luxuriate in reading, it’s my form of hypocaloric gluttony. I will not be engaging in an excursus that depicts the “art” of reading – not here in this post, anyway. I will limit myself to saying that for however relaxing an activity it may be, reading is ineluctably time-consuming… unless of course one decides to skim, but in such cases one cannot savour the chartaceous delicacy and relinquishes half of its precious flavour.
My dad would often see me read and expressly wish to have more time of his hands. He truly wanted to dive into a world of pages similar to mine: he even asked us to buy him books for his birthday. He cherished his new winged paper companions and longed to start reading them. He found time for that – and I’m immensely proud of him, because by doing this he has taught us all not one, but two things:
– It’s never too late to acquire new habits or try out new activities, such as reading;
– Time is wherever you want to find it. I’m not talking about these vast, several hour-long stretches. To be able to have those would be highly pleasurable – but for common mortals this is no more than just a fickle dream. I’m talking about the time it takes to save your soul from being annihilated by the algid, dead pulse of the day-to-day existence (an imposed and burdensome practice that would be much different, if we would only choose how to plan out our own lives). My dad has been ploughing through books and brings one along every time he knows he’ll end up somewhere where he’ll have to stay put and presumably inactive and wait for more than 10 minutes.
I saved my soul today by writing this short piece about time.
Take your time to perpetuate yourself each day – take time to last in time.
Time is one of the only certainties that we have. More or less, as it can sometimes be rather deceitful…
To be continued