Time, as we know it, is linear -- always moving forward, never back, a social construct we have manifested ourselves. Yet, rather than becoming its master, we have become its slave. In an attempt to overcome our own creation, we’ve tried to manipulate it -- dissecting, splicing, and cutting it into intangible bits and blocks that we endeavor to control by scheduling, planning around, and ultimately investing portions of ourselves and lives into -- like pieces of currency.
But time is unpredictable. It’s wild and unruly and it’s inconsiderate, and regardless of how often and how hard we try to mold and manipulate time, in the end, the effort is often futile. Even the greatest of plans are at the mercy of time.
Sometimes, we should be grateful for time; as daunting as the concept truly is, it allows us to focus. It allows us to take a second, or longer, to reevaluate and reconsider. I found this especially true about one week ago, when I left my current path towards medical school and took a leap of faith, becoming a journalism major.
It was something I had pondered, mulled over and chewed on for over a year. I knew what made my heart race and my pulse quicken. I knew what I was passionate about and I knew it was time to do what I loved rather than what I thought should be done. I knew that a story could thrill me, and it baffled and enthralled me that every human being you brush shoulders or make fleeting eye contact with has a story of their own. And as much as I love to convey this story and do it justice, it gives me an even greater, selfish and guilty pleasure in knowing that I made someone feel something, whether it be momentary or monumental, as a result of reading a cluster of words that sprouted from the tips of my fingers.
Clearly, this was not in my plan. I was going to medical school. I was going to be a doctor. I was going to slip into a white lab coat every morning and shed it every night, like a second skin. And now, I no longer have a concrete path to follow. My timeline has gone from one that is straight and narrow with a distinct endpoint to one that is organic and completely susceptible to change, and that is something I must learn to cope with.
Sometimes, rather than constructing time and attempting to alter it, we must allow time to work on us. There comes a moment in which one can no longer plan everything out meticulously- we overanalyze and think so far into the future that, ultimately, we just become enveloped and enraptured with fear. Instead, on occasion, we must allow ourselves to just be and allow time to play out.
As a culture, we have become captivated by the concept of efficiency, and in order to be efficient, we must plan. We must schedule. We must be knowledgeable of all future events to occur and forecast their ultimate outcome. We must be servants to the ticking of time and to the unseen grinding of gears, responsible for revolving two hands among jumbled numbers that are stamped on the face of a clock. There are those who learn to work with time and ally themselves alongside it, using it to propel themselves forward, and there are those that never stop attempting to conquer it.
Once we relinquish this desire to control time and every detail that makes up its very being, we can relinquish our numbing fear of the future. Time allows us to move forward, never allowing us to remain static and unchanging. We become dynamic, and whether we are ready or not, we are forced to grow and adapt. We are forced to move and push ourselves and know that it’s okay to not know everything in the moment.
In the end, the only thing we can truly expect is the passage of time, and with the passage of time comes change. And while some events can be planned for and expected, oftentimes, in one swift moment, everything that had been anticipated for is leveled and done away with. Oftentimes, we find ourselves in situations in which life simply happens, and in that instance, we must decide to go against or with the pulsing current of time.
