Time, time, time, see what's become of me...
Time’s stock has increased, and it’s not just the extra half hour’s work at the end of the day or the extra 2 hours commute out of each 24 pushing up the price.
The time I now have to myself each week is far more valuable, and not necessarily in a good way as I think this has all come about by way of an attitude shift.
I’ve a feeling I’m starting to think that my time is precious which, in itself, isn’t particularly a bad thing. All time in essence is precious, and its singular nature makes sure of that for like a flawless clear diamond is worth more than it’s cracked yellowing cousins because of its rarity, every second of every day is as unique as a snowflake. Once it’s happened it can never be changed or repeated, which, as a digression, makes it at the same time completely valueless.
So, as I stand, second after second, cramped in the corner of a tube door-well, the subject of slight olfactory abuse thanks to my elderly neighbour, I find myself feeling a little irritated.
As I’ve learnt before no time can be wasted if the subject can embrace the activity within, it’s just that my long meta-physical arms are flinching slightly at the prospect of grasping these moments to my meta-physical bosom (yes, it is a bosom).
What has happened then within me to cause embracorial hesitation?
I think I’ve lost some sense of my time being my own, more parts of the day feel enforced.
The 6:30 start, if I have the good grace to have a bath, is caused by leaving the house at 7:20 to make my train at 7:35, to get the tube at 7:53, to be at work for 8:30, to sit until 6pm tapping at a keyboard to make someone else money, from where I troll home to grab 3 or 4 hours for myself.
Day’s like this have created a bitter belligerence to tar those sweet evening hours, and all I manage to do is buttock-cling angrily to the sofa and waste my brain away with a regular dose of jungle bound celebrities. This torpor is state I don’t even seem to enjoy; more feel an insistence to participate in as a “deserved” respite from the hardship of the working day.
I think the time has come to reclaim my evenings and switch off the television set and do something less boring instead (thank you the 80’s).
Yes, starting tonight, evenings are a time of action, of dynamics and of happy ownership.
Thanks right my friends, tonight I grab 7 until 10 by the scruff of it’s neck and shake it all the way to the supermarket, because let’s be honest, what’s “I’m a celeb” without a post prandial bit of cake?
The time I now have to myself each week is far more valuable, and not necessarily in a good way as I think this has all come about by way of an attitude shift.
I’ve a feeling I’m starting to think that my time is precious which, in itself, isn’t particularly a bad thing. All time in essence is precious, and its singular nature makes sure of that for like a flawless clear diamond is worth more than it’s cracked yellowing cousins because of its rarity, every second of every day is as unique as a snowflake. Once it’s happened it can never be changed or repeated, which, as a digression, makes it at the same time completely valueless.
So, as I stand, second after second, cramped in the corner of a tube door-well, the subject of slight olfactory abuse thanks to my elderly neighbour, I find myself feeling a little irritated.
As I’ve learnt before no time can be wasted if the subject can embrace the activity within, it’s just that my long meta-physical arms are flinching slightly at the prospect of grasping these moments to my meta-physical bosom (yes, it is a bosom).
What has happened then within me to cause embracorial hesitation?
I think I’ve lost some sense of my time being my own, more parts of the day feel enforced.
The 6:30 start, if I have the good grace to have a bath, is caused by leaving the house at 7:20 to make my train at 7:35, to get the tube at 7:53, to be at work for 8:30, to sit until 6pm tapping at a keyboard to make someone else money, from where I troll home to grab 3 or 4 hours for myself.
Day’s like this have created a bitter belligerence to tar those sweet evening hours, and all I manage to do is buttock-cling angrily to the sofa and waste my brain away with a regular dose of jungle bound celebrities. This torpor is state I don’t even seem to enjoy; more feel an insistence to participate in as a “deserved” respite from the hardship of the working day.
I think the time has come to reclaim my evenings and switch off the television set and do something less boring instead (thank you the 80’s).
Yes, starting tonight, evenings are a time of action, of dynamics and of happy ownership.
Thanks right my friends, tonight I grab 7 until 10 by the scruff of it’s neck and shake it all the way to the supermarket, because let’s be honest, what’s “I’m a celeb” without a post prandial bit of cake?
posted by Paul Seymour at 5:08 AM
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