Time is continuous. Every moment passed is banked and forever gone. Every moment ahead is unknown and can never arrive. Now is now. Now is cash in hand. Yet we split this continuum into days. We write off days. Sometimes in the morning. Sometimes the afternoon. Usually at night. And we expect so much from the next. This little capsule of 24 hours. Despite it overlapping across the world. We seem to exist in one time frame. Ours. And we think the world quietens and stops during our night and arises fresh each morning.
We don’t write off hours and assume the next is going to be better. The next hour we assume, correctly, is a continuation of the last (save for timetable events which bring great promise). A bad day at noon is still bad at 1pm. We drag the day through and drop it off at night when we sleep. I can see why we do it. It makes things easier to deal with. Easier to compartmentalise. Maybe if we, the privileged, pampered and pompous west took the problems faced by others in this world to bed, through the night and woke up with them. Then we might get somewhere. It won’t make us happy. Not until we can stop the problems before bedtime.
Just to add to this. We do the same with years. What magical slate cleaning, conscience cleansing moment occurs on that second when we depart yesteryear and stagger into the New one? Drawing a line under things is both a help and a hindrance. It’s too easy to declare wrongdoings, misgivings and grievances as something that belongs only to the past. Yet to dwell is to waste time.
Surely it’s better to live on with things in continuum? Just allot time accordingly to those thing we can or should change and afford none to those which were instances never to be repeat, never to affect another instance. What is the point of experiencing things in life if it plays no further part in our life other than to serve as favourite anecdote to light up dinner party conversation? Caution must be heeded as not to carry experience through life as heavy baggage. That will shorten the journey and make you weary.
Then again, who am I to talk when I favour life seen through a series of snapshots and in each day find only today and no yesterday and no tomorrow. Tomorrow only exists as a looming shadow of worry which must occasionally be confronted. On rare occasions, the promise of a joyful, a dream life tomorrow, renders unhappy in today as I become consciously, perhaps paranoidly so, mortal, and become consumed with the task of surviving to bring in the new day. Not caring what fate lies after that day. Just to witness that day. What peculiar behaviour for someone who knows that it matters not what you feel or what you did in this realm when your time has expired as there is nothing more. Death has no memory. Funny how are supposedly born equal (ideally) spend our lives differentiating ourselves only to become certainly equal upon death. Big grave, small grave, no grave, in pieces, in coffins, no mourning, mass mourning. Means nothing once those who knew have passed on too.