For all the things we could have said. For all the things we didn't do. Time is our greatest nightmare. It's not only about how we categorise the future, or the past, it could simply be all about timing. We live lives with a certain degree of blindness. Blindness to ourselves and to others. Sometimes it's wilful, other times it's not. There is something called selective inattention in psychology. It's about when people avoid consciously thinking about relevant information because it's emotionally upsetting. We all do that in our life don't we? Distract ourselves with other things to avoid the things that need talking about. Stuff that ultimately needs your time. You know humans have always tried to quantify time and say, "I have too much time" or "I have too little time." And truthfully speaking, if we were living life intensely, you wouldn't even think about it. You would do the work that needs to be done. You would be able to eat, have sex and shit and still have time to reflect on nothingness. Then why do we have anxiety?Because when time interacts with our varying levels of consciousness, it is internalised and translated as an behavioural, emotional response in our bodies.
I realised the authors I read like camus, kafka, perec and hesse. They all had novels based around the alienation they felt towards the world. And in the past, this ineffable feeling plagued them and fed them parasitically. What was the purpose of living? What was the purpose of time?
