That Time Again
The most frustrating thing about moving to a different hemisphere is
trying to negotiate time. Time --being jet lag and hangovers and bafflingly
light evenings -- moves slow, then fast, then not at all.
I’ve been here a week and a half and it feels like a lifetime. Long
enough to already be beating myself up for not having achieved more.
I really ought to let myself exhale. And inhale. And so on.
A myriad of bleak anniversaries are fast approaching. The first was
this morning. I woke up teary-eyed, I can’t believe it’s been a year. And,
naturally, now all I seem to be able to think about is time itself. It’s
everything and nothing. I have too much of it and not enough. Or I'm conscious of taking other's.
I think about using my time differently, inversely.
I want to
participate less; become a voyeur. Like moving the batteries from a vibrator to
a radio, I want to exist just a little less. It’s the first day I’ve felt like
this since being here. I’m okay, I did anticipate this kind of fog.
When I’m at home I wear my glasses and tie back my hair and chatter to myself. I use my time as I wish. To reflect, you know. To exhale. And inhale, and so on.
Some day a warm voice will say "Here, let me hold that soul for you, you've been carrying that all damn day."
A photographer boy made me his muse, I think.
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