In our teens we “kill” time, like it’s the enemy.
When we’re in our 20s we spend it like it’s the spare change we find amid the lint in our pockets.
(I barely remember my 30s — I know, objectively, that “they” were ten years long, but it’s all just a blur, but “time” didn’t really seem to be something I thought about. . .yet. Haven’t quite tipped the scales, so to speak, since we figure we’ll live to at least 80, and we have more years left than we’ve lived.)
In our 40s we realize how little of it there really is, how fast it goes, and how it’s the one commodity we can’t borrow or negotiate.
In Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain the character Settembrini notes how, at a certain point in our lives, we look back, and past events seem chronologically both recent and distant, and speculates that this apparent dichotomy indicates a life well lived.
I try to let that be some kind of comfort to me as the years zip by.
There can’t possibly be enough time to read all the books I want to read and see all the movies I want to see and eat all the fantastic meals I want to eat and meet all the friends I want to meet. I almost always wonder, when I’m doing something, if I “should” be doing something else.
Maybe I should have emotionally embraced my recent week-long bout of insomnia as a chance to “waste” less time sleeping.