Time is of the essence and our own essence defines time, since we’re actually finite.
And yet, we disrespect.
We get distracted, we push our way through the seconds, the minutes and eventually the years until all the things we left for some more appropriate preordained point in the future don’t mean a thing anymore.
I’ll call you later, I will see you soon. When the time comes, I will have the gift of your dreams ready, waiting for you. When I see you again, we’ll have all the time in the world to recap and plan about the future.
Is it all a futile process of lying against ourselves in order to protect us from the ruthless truth of our demise? Maybe our brain is actually incapable of understanding the delicate notions of such things. Or maybe we are indeed programmed to always operate in this little limbo where we shift through the present while dreaming of the future and regretting of the past.
The possibilities are endless and we stand in between all, blissfully frustrated, breaking down installments and syncing our Facebook pages to our mobile phone calendars, so we can, at least, satisfy our birthday wishing ego.
And the hands are moving, the clock is steadily ticking and I’m still typing about things that should be done when I finish typing. Give your future a good past to remember. Otherwise your present in the future will be as regrettable as the past is to your present. Maybe you should stop reading now and book a flight ticket with your parents. They have never seen Europe anyway.
The Renaissance Man