top of page

Transitions



The concept of time has always been so peculiar to me. When I was younger, an hour's car ride felt like a century. Now, five hours on a train passes in a flash. I had a theory that perhaps, as we grow older, each second that passes counts for a smaller fraction of the cumulated time we’ve experienced as a whole. Hence each second feels shorter, like a short breath that escapes and is forgotten.


Naturally, a year flies by. Before long, I am an adult, a decision maker, an explorer stumbling in the dark trying to carve a path for myself. I fell. I got up. I was joyous. I was in love. I was confused. I was disheartened. I was motivated. I pushed through.


Looking back, the lessons I learned, the once concealed truths now seem stark and blatant.


I know nothing, and nothing is more important to me than connecting with those I love, holding their hand, and knowing that they will bloom. Time is truly a love potion. We drop the quarrels, the pranks, the “I hate yous”, and only forgiveness that remains. Forgiveness for you who safekeeps a piece of my heart, as I hold a fragment of yours.


I know the labels I made for myself, the definitions, the expectations, are all sand castles that crumble. Perfection is a myth, like Athena’s omniscient wisdom or a dragon’s breath:

“It’s all of nothing.”

“Go big or go home.”

“100% is the only acceptable outcome.”


These voices, repeated by the raspy throat of our parents, still ring in our ears after all this time. But perfection is the enemy. When I am not 100% sure I can complete something perfectly, I am petrified or I run. I don't try things that I can't definitely succeed in, so I don't try at all. The flaw purifies, it cleanses, and it fills the gaping void.


I know the temporality of pain. Acknowledgment is the great enemy of pain. Don’t react, but just notice the pain. The feeling that crawls around your heart and pecks at it is just a feeling. You are healthy and your heart is still pumping. The cloud of anxiety that fogs your head is just in your head. You are not a cloud. You are a boulder. With time, it dissipates.


God’s hands on the clock hold onto the past like an elegy and reach into the future like a battle cry. The hands cover the wounds but make more cuts. As each second passes the denominator increases though the numerator remains the same. We sit and wait until one day each second seems as trivial as a sesame and as gargantuan as a galaxy.


 

Editor: Chris F.

Image source: Unsplash


Comments


bottom of page