Noise seems central to the question of how time moves. When I moved to new york, something changed without my knowing it, suddenly living in this new sense of time.
I lived on a high floor and would open my dorm window to hear the city from above and know it as distant.
The amount of dedication per time unit can work like vanity bra sizing: if you were very focused in one unit of time versus dispersed among hours. I’m reading the Bhagavad-Gita and Exodus in the same week. In both time is correlated to effort.
According to my famous professor, no one wrote diaries in Shakespeare’s time, but I wonder if it’s true. There’s no way to prove it. A clock was not the centerpiece of a town square, mantle, or wrist. I think these facts are related. Time is the $15 Casio I bought on Amazon to try to get free from my phone.
I don’t think enough people know that there is a speed to the human body. It’s 50 m/s. And that the Internet works at 200 million km a second, so whenever you use it you are four million times over hopelessly outpaced. Indeed every time I open the Internet it feels like standing in the middle of a 30 Lane Highway.
Even Exodus admits we ought to take quiet walks through the desert. The older the text, the more sensuous it is, even if it’s more antiquated and misogynistic. The old testament is full of the imagery of touch, feeling, heat, hunger, thirst, weeping.
Time is there when you lie awake. Time alone is different from time with an aging mother, which is different each time you see her and are older, and it’s different when you’ve been away longer. Enough time and you stop writing down what people say, worried you’ll forget your own life. It's trying to close your eyes in a theater. It's trying to tell someone you love them but have lost your sense of self which is your sense of time or have become too tethered to theirs.
The bed light, the burning candle which smells too strongly, the open window filling the room with noise. Allegedly the morning is waiting outside and I dread its arrival. I'd like to sit here and have time to myself forever.
Time is the misnomers of myself and I.
Time is naturally nothing, which, in being a noun, is something.
Time is first a rock in your shoe but becomes the sole.
Time inches towards poetry when you have enough of it.