It’s coming to 11 PM. Perhaps it already is 11 PM. A few seconds of a minute seem so insignificant I may as well say it is close to midnight. Though that may be true, I can still get quite a bit done in an hour’s time. But now it’s 11 PM. The numbers have changed. My sorrow deepens. Time is running faster than I can catch up, for I resent the wasting of time, especially when the fault is my own.
Tomorrow I take bars of gold away from the light of day. Tomorrow I will continue to regret my decisions until after the decisions. Tomorrow I will submissively file paperwork, the interminable piles that expands exponentially as new patients roll in. I question its purpose; I question mine. It’s now 11:05 PM, and my To-Do list is winning. I can’t let it win.
When I run out of time, I run out of something more precious than air. Air can be traded, moved, expanded, compressed, morphed, heated, you name it. The tangibility of air allows it to be controlled to the best extent of one’s pulmonary system. Time is tricky. It is abstract. It passes at different speeds though physics deem that no to be possible. It defies all logic. How can I save mine?
As the impending strike of midnight looms, I am forced into the unfortunate obligation of sleep. I am less confused by the passage of time for I have wisely chosen to reflect before doing work. My mind was rejuvenated before proceeding on to the demanding tasks of English, French and Physics. Oh yes, Biology as well. Though the unfortunate teacher makes our lives collectively unfortunate. So yes, it is also a demanding task, a burdensome luggage. But it seems that I have worked nonstop since 5 PM. Have I allowed the gold to slip through the cracks of my fingers unknowingly? Have I fooled myself with my submersion into the rhythm of work?
It is now 11:13 PM. Time passes. Should we make the better of it? Sure, with better defined as doing as much work as possible. Now here’s a paradox: there will always be more work.
These suffocating limitations in time does now allow more work to be done, however. Three books still sit on my desk, unopened, as inviting as they seem. I regrettably have two more books I plan to read before starting on my school readings. How can I manage? Should I drop my external obligations and focus on my own tasks, the tasks that I have created myself, the tasks that is a feat to accomplish but an impossible one?
“Those who have reached all their ambitions did not set them high enough.” – Herbert von Karajan
Does my motivation finally invent a perpetual machine? the ability to create new obligations and never completing them all? Today, I might not. Tomorrow, maybe not. But then, what is the purpose of pre-reading when I am crowded in other work before the pre-reading? Then the time will come and pre-reading will just be keeping pace. I will no longer feel the surge of being one step ahead, or even a few miles ahead. It’s a feeling I hold dear for it brought me well deserved confidence last semester. My wants are unlimited, yet the resources to achieve such wants are very much limited. Creating time is not an option, though it doesn’t hurt to dream it. I may as well stay past the toll of the midnight bell and work ceaselessly until my eyes give way, or my back, whichever one precedes the other.
I may one day catch up with my To-Do list, but I must understand how impossible it is. I can very well dream of doing applications of Newton’s Laws before we finish the Uncertainty and Regression unit, but that is simply a dream. Common sense might dictate that I should take care of myself. Though my rational mind (only by definition) pushes me beyond my physical capacities, and perniciously pushes me towards the relentlessly bitter world of stupor. Perhaps I can try a coup d’état, to drive the ruling mind out of the driver’s seat, out of its haughty throne, undermine its inexorable decrees. Though the devices of sexual desire and emotional turbulence are effective, I then submit myself to the inevitable condemnations from the mind, from my mind. I would be labeled as salacious, primitive, undisciplined, nomadic, and inhuman. And thus concludes the beauty of a destructive mind.