There are two people. One hear’s tick-tick-tock and the other can’t be bothered with it.
One has a life that is quartered and ordered down to the ten minute variable. The other’s life flows softly and tenderly like a river towards the path of least resistance. Now do not mistake that phrasing — the path of least resistance is not a lazy, self-indulgent, narcissistic path to follow. Rather, it is a way of living that everyone should strive to. Not fighting and battling through brushy obstacles to places you have no business being in, but following the path laid out for you, the path that is right.
That is the path of least resistance.
But now back to the allegory. There is this one person who’s life is quartered, and he frets consistently over the harvesting and hoarding of these time units. He’s sorry when they’re not used productively and all the while he’s got every minute of every hour in every day of every week of the next sixty-four years of his life placed down into ten minute increments of what to do.
This one’s time flows down the drain, disappearing, never to be used productively because it sped past like a motorcycle racer while he was worrying about using that time productively.
And then there’s the other. He doesn’t worry about time because he doesn’t own a clock and life is quartered in happy days and sad days — of course you can’t only have one of those days, you silly chicklets, and although we dream of only happiness if we got it, it would make us quite sad for the lack of variety — and the sun is his guide for when to sleep and when to rise.
When he’s with friends he doesn’t worry about whether he has the time to enjoy the meeting and he doesn’t check his phone or whisk off emails because really, if you can’t enjoy time with a friend without stressing over efficacy in time-usage, why are you with that friend?
There are these two people and they are us. We have to choose which one to be — the one who has ordered time down to such a degree that although he’s got the next one hundred years planned in some journal, he’s never really able to use the time because he’s so worried about measuring it out. Or you can be the one who says,
Maybe instead of worrying about this mental time, I should be concerned with living in it as best as I can. Because who gives a fuck how many minutes are in six and one quarter hours if you’re not going to use that six and one quarter hours as best as you humanly can?