I was always so aware of the passage of time.
My mother would claim, “Life goes by fast, so don’t waste it.” Other children — the normal ones — never thought much of this statement until they grew, making it feel as though their childhood lasted forever. But those words constantly replayed on loop in my head.
I’d be 5 years old, playing in the sandbox while thinking of that one, terrible sentence, only to blink and have 2 years pass by in a blur, where I suddenly found myself playing with dolls, and I would think, “I was just in the sandbox. Where did that go?”
And true, true: where did that go?
Where does time go when we lose sight of it? Why was I conditioned to be so aware of it — of the horrifying nature of it all? Why could I not have been blissfully unaware like the other kids were? Why did I always know too much, too soon?
At one time I was a child, yes. But I was always a child looking back on another, smaller child.
It terrified me to no end. I would toss and turn and weep in the darkness of my bedroom, begging time to stand still. Until the age of 13, I was convinced that, if I only thought about it hard enough, I could go back in time if truly needed and wanted.
Truthfully, I still think this at times. It’s a nice fantasy. A ‘what if’ that I toss around in my growing brain from time to time. I convince myself things are not yet bad enough to go back, so I never think about it too hard. Just in case that it is true — in case there is hope, and I can rewind if needed.
Because it is terrifying — being finite, I mean. People claim to be scared of immortality, but the thought of that has never once plagued me. I would be content to wander forever and watch as things and people change. Watch as I shift through my own identities for millennia — a snake perpetually shedding its skin. Watch as the world ends with everyone together.
Only then would I be ready to go, I think. When it’s not only the end for me, but the end for humanity as a whole. Where I won’t have to be remembered for all of my mistakes and the things I failed to do.
All of us could smile and laugh tearfully together, as we’re all simultaneously filled with the weighted knowledge of finiteness. We would carry it on our shoulders and attempt to pray, as humans do, always clinging onto the abstract and fantasies for comfort. And we would be okay. Because we would soon be gone. And being gone at once would bring us together again, like we were always meant to be.
Only then would we be equal — equally terrified of the slowly approaching death, then equally relieved as it comes and we venture into the light together — no longer alone, no longer separate from every little thing and needlessly focusing on our differences. For once, for one single brief moment before it all ends, we’d all be a part of the exact same thing.
This is a bit of a morbid fantasy, I suppose, but it promises me more than dying alone does.
I've always been so alone in life: thinking in a different manner than my peers, concerning myself with instances that everyone else failed to bat an eye at, and not having anyone care to understand me. So perhaps if I could rewind time, or somehow go on forever against all odds, this would not follow me in death. I would finally be able to belong and be a part of something before I go.
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romaincrisis