“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river that sweeps me along, but I am the river. It is a tiger that destroys me, but I am the tiger.” – Jorge Luis Borges

If time is the substance I am made of, I am depleted and drained and running on empty. If I am a river of time, I am cutting through unknown lands. There is little enough time in one life to defeat the tiger that pursues me, my own personal tiger being ambition and ego, and perhaps, too, the choices I’ve made or not made. I feel much like a stranger to myself, or a distant acquaintance. Is it too late? Too late for what exactly? I am the middle of a sandwich, pressed on either side by demands and responsibilities. Am I strong and calm and solid and grounded—a steady and steadying presence for those around me? Or am I squashed flat and distracted and grandstanding and weary and humourless?

Maybe it’s just a lot all at once, and I need to stand up for myself and turn down opportunities and be wise, for heavens sake, count my blessings, prioritize, ask for help before it’s too late.

Or is my timing off, is that all that’s happening, that youth has run on ahead of me, and I’m holding onto mores and values that strike a clashing tone?

Is it me? Why don’t I recognize myself anymore? Once upon a time, books were a medium that entertained and diverted and enlightened. It takes time to settle into a story, time to deepen understanding. Time to reflect. Who has the time? It’s not that I’m not reading, or you’re not reading; we’re all reading, constantly, we’re all absorbing narrative: texts and posts and blurbs and headlines and opinions and hot takes. Our brains are pinging with the reward of the new(s); our brains are bored silly, restless, over- and under- stimulated at once, chasing a sugary scroll on multiple screens that never fills us up. More, more, more.

I say that what I want is stillness, reflection, ease, breath.

But my choices make a liar of me. At night before bed, I compulsively scroll news headlines till exhaustion drags me under. There are several novels waiting on my nightstand, half-read, and every night I promise myself I’ll pick those up instead.

What brings me back to myself — the self that I long for and occasionally glimpse?

Physical activity, motion, putting things in order. I go to the gym to feel more like myself. I shelf-read at school. I hardly ever stop doing, except to collapse.

The hardness of time, its relentless turning. Gravity pulling me down. I need to be strong, I’d like to wise, but what if, what if, I’m not?

xo, Carrie