we have all the time in the world

and yet none at all.

Yes, I’m writing what is essentially a New Years’ post in February. Time is fake anyway. Haven’t you been paying attention?

Acknowledging the universally-agreed-upon fact that New Years resolutions are stupid and pointless, I did come up with a couple of goals for 2021. Read more books, make a daily habit out of writing, et cetera. Pretty sure those were also my goals for 2020 and we all saw how that turned out. Alas. If I’m lucky, this’ll be the year I finish my first real manuscript. It’s about time I polished that one off; I have another idea for a novel knocking around in the back of my head like a penny in an empty piggy bank.

But the passage of time is quite a scary thing (says the 21-year-old after an eight hour video game binge. Side-note: the Resident Evil 2 remake is a masterpiece). 40 hours a week for the day job, around 60 asleep, factor in time for eating and bathing and general self care, how do you divide the remainder of that time with other creative passions? What about casual hobbies? Consuming media for fun? And relationships? Damn, another round on me, fellas. Not sure anyone has the answer to that.

I don’t have anything profound to say on this subject, unfortunately (*distant cheering*). This post is more so a self indulgent exploration of my personal temporal anxieties. How do you cope with having a new four digit number in the top corner of your calendar? I’d like to know.