It feels like for the last couple of years I’m caught in this weird reality in which I can’t properly perceive the emptiness of time, or possibly in which I won’t let time be empty, I’m not sure which.
Point being, there is this thing called time, and you have some of it every day. At least, that’s how we culturally construct this thing. And you are supposed to leverage that time that you have as a resource and use it to do things, perform tasks, etc.
The problem is that these days, I notice, particularly on weekends, that I don’t feel any opening to actually get anything done though I supposedly have two whole days of empty time to spend. Instead, I’m not sure where I spend it, but I get less done than I do on weekdays.
It’s clear to me that I don’t know what to do with it any longer, that I can’t see the opportunity that’s wrapped up in it or the freedom that it affords. Instead, I feel as though I’m repressing consciousness of it, i.e. that I might be just burning time on purpose by busily doing vacuous, forgettable things, purely so that I don’t have any of it.
But why would I do that? I’m not sure, but it results in the strangest sensation on, say, a Saturday, that the day isn’t really there and that I’m not really sitting in the middle of it. And then it’s over, after a brief period of studied deontology.