Time can lose its consistency when the sizzle and crackle of life booms around you. It’s sounds, and smogs, and concrete shells take something away from you. Caught in a daze weeks become months, and years go by in a day.
Time is supposed to be relative, a famous person much smarter than I once said something along those lines. Yet here I am, occasionally unsure of the month because of the blisteringly fast pace that my “time” is moving at. I live in the city, this concrete mass sprawls both towards the horizon and the sky. We invent new words for phenomena that occur only here, amidst the scurry and bustle of untold people, cars, trains, and the immense importance of daily routines.
When I can I hide from it, try and find a quiet corner or moment of silence, or solace. Time changes for me when I leave this place. It passes at a humane pace. Things move in a way that makes sense. When you can see non-ornamental plants, suddenly seasons make sense and you notice the sky a little bit more. Did the sun ever look so good in the city?
You can stop and catch your breath, actually hear your thoughts, and for a moment the ringing in your ears vanishes. Something in my brain just clicks, it’s almost audible, and I feel the weight slide off my shoulders, the burdens ooze from the my muscles, and time slows. I used to do it a lot more, I’d spend hours in the woods, hiking, climbing, sweating, and just breathing. Even though it’d occasionally take up an afternoon, evening, sometimes even a weekend; I always felt like I had enough time.
Part of the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge:Time