Life writing leads to meditation on concept of time

Time confounds me. And don’t worry, this post won’t turn into one of those, “Time heals all,” monologues from Tumblr. This post is more like, “Hey, big, bad world! I’m Taylor, and here’s a nugget of the innumerable things I don’t quite get and maybe never will!”

One of the many results of my interest in life-writing is incessant meditation on the concept of time and how it manifests day to day in my world. And, again in the life-writing tradition, I’m wary of any hint of a “conclusion” or “culmination.” I figure it’s more than likely fleeting, to be replaced by a deeper, more informed epiphany reached only by an older, more worldly version of me.

But back to the concept of time and my raging uncertainty (I imagine there’s a handy “20 Reasons Being Uncertain in Your 20s is Totally Normal” listicle waiting to guide me to eternal enlightenment).

I’m particularly confounded by the ability of time to at once fly and lumber. When I park my (inevitably) senioritis-afflicted self in the library next semester to memorize that pile of Arabic flashcards (wish me luck in that endeavor, blogosphere), time will probably lumber by.

But then, in the middle of one of my breaks (Hey, I memorized 10 cards; therefore, I’ve earned a 15-minute Twitter break, right?), I’ll probably glance at my calendar (more avoidance) and realize it’s November or something crazy like that.

In November, I’ll turn 22. A month later, I graduate from college. Damn it, time.

I’ve long believed I could control time — a side effect of my trademark stubbornness. From color-coding, to mapping out my entire day, to dreaming about losing my calendar (a nightmare, rather), I’m pretty good at trying to control time.

Emphasis on trying. It’s time I realize the limitations of my schedule, internal clock and even the holy grail of time-control: the multicolored Sharpie pack that recently rocked my color-coding world.

Rather than draw a thick, neon line through my next appointment, I think I’ll write my name in bubble letters. It’s one of the few things I know for certain, after all.

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