Dates and times: not my fave. What day is it: hold on, let me check. What time is it: hold on, let me check. Where am I supposed to be now: hold on, let me check. That thing that happened all those years ago that no one remembers but me? Seared into my brain, down to the millisecond.
Time is an illusion until you run out of it.
I have talked about the unadulterated bliss that, for me, is unstructured free time. I am, typically, scheduled up to my eyeballs. Waking up at the crack of dawn and going to sleep whenever to try to do all the tasks that have my name attached, implicitly or explicitly, to their checkboxes. (it gives a lovely light)
I run my day on alarms and timers. Who needs pomodoro when anxiety is right there.
The absence of alarms, reminders, calendar events means I get to decide how I want to spend my time.
"Doing nothing" is less interesting to me than "doing whatever I want in a given 24-hour window without the looming threat of a deadline or major breaking news or an obligation to someone who wants to ~ pick my brain ~"
I can count the number of times I have had those kinds of days in the last x number of years. Low double digits. Time to mind that gap.
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,
and buried ambitions rise up through the floor
and pin your wriggling shoulders to the wall;
— from February by Bill Christophersen