There's something, I realize, driving the number and variety of ideas I have for things to write about. Would you be surprised to learn it has to do with getting out of the house? They always told me time would seem to slip away faster as I get older. I never wanted to believe them, not only because of how scary that sounds, to accumulate all that wisdom, all that know-how, to navigate the complexities of life just to watch it all wash away in an instant. But also because… how much could it really matter that time would seem to slip away, when in reality it'd continue apace as it always had? Surely that was just a them problem. I'd find a way to live my life such that everything would stay new and exciting forever.

But home is one of the best places for me to do my school work, or my work work, and it's typically where I have to do all my care work. My desk is only fifteen paces away from my bed, right next to my coffee maker, my gender-neutral bathroom, my couch, my fridge. Everything I need to get through the week. I try to get out of the house most days, even if just to work on my assignments, but even then, I'm not usually going much further than the university campus, now just a twenty minute trip away. The convenience of it all, the rituals, the familiar faces and places, keep me nearby.

An old friend of mine shared this concern with me the other week, or month. Months? Maybe this was last year. Anyways, they told me they wanted to commit to trying something new each week, recognizing that getting too caught up in your own patterns is one of the major driving factors in this whole time-compression thing. I'm not really sure how that's going for them. I feel like we haven't spoken in months.

I'm not sure how attached I am to the idea of always doing new things. It's cool, I guess, but I've been alive long enough now to know what I like. I've spent most of my life watching others perform Great Feats, on the television, on my phone, in my life… People who've worked so hard to be where they are and have something to show for it. All these people swirl together in my mind into a single imagined person—someone representing who I maybe think I ought to be. But that person exists only in my imagination, and insofar as I can tell, to become them would literally be impossible. There's only so much waking time I have in my life to budget towards "becoming a better embodiment of a hypothetical version of myself."

Last night I went to a concert with some friends for the first time in a while. I always find I get a little sentimental after watching performing arts, especially when I know the people on stage. Last night, I recognized quite a few faces—more than I anticipated. To see people dedicated to something they care about, in their moment, makes me selfishly wonder what the Hell I'm doing spending all my time doing work.

Why don't I write like I used to?

I never "had the time" to write. I always made the time to write. Today, I think there are material conditions making it harder for me to "make the time," but if you're not making the time for the things in life you enjoy, then life will kill you and you'll have nothing to show for it.

Respond to this article

If you have thoughts you'd like to share, send me an email!
See here for ways to reach out