Time

Time seems to fold over onto itself, as if everything that happened in between two points never really happened and only linger as a myriad of thoughts we call memory. Like I snapped my fingers and instantaneously traveled into the future. I last wrote in this space five years ago. I have a bundle of memories about all kinds of events that transpired over those five years, but as I sit here it feels like only a moment ago that I was in our rental house on Raleigh St. in Westminster, CO, writing about my job as a freight unloader at a Lowe's store.

If we sit and think about it, dividing what we call time into its perfect little measured increments, time feels real. Almost tangible. If you're someone who always needs to be busy, just sit quietly with your hands folded in your lap for an hour. You can bet your ass you will feel every second of that hour like they are mosquitos buzzing in your ear. But if we remove all concepts of time, remove all words that describe it, put away all the devices that tell us what time is, and just feel the present moment, time seems to disappear. All that remains is this present moment, and time is seen for what it really is - a concept. 

So over the past five years, I did do all the things. They did happen. But I now see that they all happened in the space we call now, and it's only when I attach a timestamp to each and every little last scrap of memory that those events are placed in what we call time. That's why it feels like just yesterday that I last wrote in this blog. Or that I got married to Dave. Or that I got the inch-long scar on my right hand from pounding on and breaking the glass portion of the front screen door because my sisters wouldn't let me into the house. It all feels like yesterday because it all happened in this space we call now.