Coldplay’s Amsterdam begins with a star going out. A man is swerving, losing his grip, blaming himself for moving too soon and then insisting that he waited as long as he could. He can’t get the timing right.
That feels true to the way despair works. The past becomes a courtroom that never closes. Every decision returns as evidence. If I acted, I acted too soon. If I waited, I waited too long. The mind reopens the case at three in the morning, calls the same witnesses and reaches the same verdict.
I am here because I failed to understand time.
Then the song offers a line that seems to belong to another world:
Time is on your side.
It lands with an almost offensive gentleness. Nothing in the song supports it. The star is fading. The singer is stuck in a hole. He sees no chance of release. Time doesn’t feel like an ally in that condition. It feels like the walls moving inward while everyone else continues with their day.
Still, the line remains. It doesn’t argue its case. It sits beside the panic and refuses to leave.
Maybe the trouble isn’t time itself. Shame has its own clock. So do secrecy, exhaustion and fear. They take an hour and make it feel permanent. They take a bad season and present it as a final account of the life. Under that pressure, the present moment claims more authority than it deserves.
The line that catches hardest comes later:
I know I’m dead on the surface
But I am screaming underneath
There are people who look functional from across the room. They answer messages, turn up for work, make coffee, laugh in the right places and say they are tired when tired is the safest available word. The surface continues to perform life. Underneath, something is hammering at the floorboards.
The scream matters. It tells us that the buried self isn’t dead. Something still wants air, contact, movement, release. Despair can numb the surface without extinguishing the whole person. A scream is painful evidence, but it is evidence of life.
The song keeps giving the inner condition a physical form. First a hole. Then a ball and chain. Then a bridge and a noose. The language gains weight, height and rope. The body enters through nausea: sick to the stomach. This is no longer sadness viewed through glass. The person has reached the edge of what he can contain.
Language has reached its edge too:
You can say what you mean
But it won’t change a thing
That line sits beside I’m sick of the secrets, and the pairing hurts. Secrecy has become unbearable, yet confession can’t guarantee release. You can finally say the thing. You can give it the cleanest words you have. The machinery may keep turning.
We sometimes ask language to do more than language can do. Naming a wound matters. Telling the truth changes the room. But a sentence can’t always untie the knot that produced it. Sometimes the words need another person on the other side of them, someone willing to stay, believe what they hear, or reach for the rope.
That person arrives at the end of Amsterdam.
You came along and you cut me loose.
The line is repeated three times. It sounds less like a chorus than a nervous system trying to register a fact. The rope has been cut. Say it again. The rope has been cut. Say it once more because the body has spent so long braced for the drop that it doesn’t yet know what release feels like.
I like that the song allows rescue to come from outside. It doesn’t protect the modern fantasy that every worthy person must become entirely self-releasing, self-healing and self-sufficient. There are knots we can’t reach from inside our own binding. Another person can enter the closed circuit and interrupt it.
They don’t need to solve the whole life. They may only need to prevent this moment from becoming the author of every moment that follows.
The phrase cut me loose carries a shadow. It can mean release, but it can also mean abandonment. Someone cuts you free from the rope; someone else cuts you out of their life. The song leaves the blade between those meanings. Real release often contains a severing. The old arrangement can’t survive intact. The rope goes, and some version of the self goes with it.
You don’t climb down from that bridge unchanged.
And then there is the title. Amsterdam never appears in the lyric. The city remains outside the song, holding whatever can’t be said directly. A street, a room, a night, a memory. Places sometimes become private names for states of consciousness. We say the city when we mean the version of ourselves who lived there, loved there, broke there or nearly disappeared there.
By the end, the speaker hasn’t been healed. His star hasn’t visibly brightened. The secrets haven’t been explained away. He has been cut loose.
That is enough for the song. Release comes before recovery. First the rope. Then the ground. Then, if he can bear it, time.
The line from earlier is still waiting for him: time is on your side. Maybe this is what it meant. The moment feels final, but it isn’t entitled to write the rest of the life. Someone has cut the rope, and time has opened again.
Time is a nonrenewable resource, but that language can make a life sound like a battery slowly running down. Use it wisely. Don’t waste a drop. Extract maximum value before the whole operation shuts down.
There’s truth in the warning, but also a trap. The moment we call time a resource, the manager in the mind arrives with a clipboard. The day becomes something to allocate, optimise, account for. Eight hours sold here, an hour invested there, twenty minutes squandered looking at nonsense on a screen. Soon we’re measuring a life by its efficiency, which may be one of the more efficient ways of missing it.
Still, the day matters. Not the ideal day that begins tomorrow, when we’re finally rested, disciplined, organised, healed and in possession of the correct notebook. This day. The one already underway. The one with its coffee going cold, its unanswered messages, its half-hour of unexpected sunlight on the kitchen floor.
To become clear about the value of a single day isn’t necessarily to fill it with worthy activity. It may be to stop treating it as a waiting room for the life we intend to begin later. A day doesn’t have to be productive to be inhabited. It can contain work, boredom, grief, pleasure, obligation, dawdling, conversation, a walk taken without a destination. The question isn’t only What did I accomplish? but Was I present for any of it?
The way we spend our time does reveal our values, though not as neatly as the self-help books suggest. A calendar is partly a confession, but it’s also a record of necessity, compromise, duty, fatigue and other people’s claims upon us. We don’t always spend time on what we value most. Sometimes we spend it on what frightens us. Sometimes on what keeps the lights on. Sometimes on habits formed by a version of ourselves who no longer lives here.
A single day can expose the whole arrangement.
Perhaps the deeper measure of self-knowledge is not whether every hour matches our declared values, but whether we can see the mismatch without flinching. I say I value writing, yet give the freshest part of my mind to the screen. I say I value friendship, yet keep postponing the call. I say I want freedom, yet arrange my days around internalised assessment, forever trying to prove that I’ve used my life correctly.
Not because every day must be extraordinary, but because a life has no other unit of habitation. We never live “a lifetime.” We live this morning, this meal, this patch of afternoon, this moment of standing at the window wondering where the hours went.
And perhaps that’s the transformation: not learning to spend time perfectly, but realising that time isn’t passing somewhere outside us.
I had coffee with Dave, on Friday, in a small-town café in the middle of nowhere. During the conversation, something came to light that I already knew but hadn’t had a chance to follow up on yet.
Subscribers to Soulcruzer receive an email whenever I publish something in the main blog feed, unless they’ve opted out. However, my Working Notes and Field Notes live outside that feed because I don’t want to flood anyone’s inbox every time I release a fragment, quotation, half-formed thought or dispatch from a walk.
The trouble is that readers who follow the main blog may never see those notes unless they visit the blog or follow me on Bluesky where th working notes are automatically cross-posted.
So I’m trying an experiment. Once a week, I’ll publish Working Notes from the Textual Underground in the main feed: a curated gathering of the week’s fragments and field notes, with links back to the originals. I don’t know what form these gatherings will take. Some may be annotated lists, dialogues, maps, collages or something stranger. This first one has become a braided essay.
Ten notes went underground this week. Here’s what they were doing down there.
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We forget a lot of the past. We are confused about the present and we are ignorant about the future.
There’s a brutal little epistemology in that sentence:
We forget much of the past. We’re confused about the present. We’re ignorant of the future.
And yet we conduct ourselves as though we possess all three.
We turn incomplete memories into coherent biographies. We mistake our current interpretation for a clear view of what’s happening. Then we project that interpretation forward and call it a plan.
Human life is a strange journey through time. The past appears to be behind us, but parts of it keep disappearing or changing shape. The present is beneath our feet, but we can see only a small patch of it. The future remains outside the frame, even as we make appointments, promises and five-year plans as though we’ve already inspected it.
Forgetting, confusion and ignorance may not be failures in the system. They may be the conditions under which consciousness operates. If we remembered everything, understood the present completely and knew what was coming, there would be little room for interpretation, choice or genuine encounter. We would merely execute the script.
Memory is already a form of storytelling. The present is a negotiation among competing stories. The future is the territory those stories are trying to colonise.
This calls for three kinds of humility:
Toward the past: my memory isn’t the event.
Toward the present: my frame isn’t the whole situation.
Toward the future: my expectation isn’t a prophecy.
But we still have to move. That’s the rub. We don’t get to wait for certainty before living.
We make decisions in a present we barely understand, using memories we’ve partly reconstructed, in service of futures we can’t see.
This isn’t exactly reassuring, but it does loosen certainty’s grip. Certainty was never part of the equipment. Attention, interpretation, revision and courage are what we have to work with.
Some people want to kill time, as if the hours were an enemy to be disposed of. They scroll, distract themselves, wait for something better to begin. But killing time is a strange ambition. Time and life arrive as the same substance. You can’t murder one without wounding the other.
Others want to sidestep time. They seek the timeless moment: flow, trance, meditation, nostalgia, the long afternoon when the clock loosens its grip. There’s wisdom in this. The industrial clock is a crude instrument, and refusing its rule can feel like freedom. But even the sanctuary outside time must eventually return you to the body, the calendar, the changing light.
The more powerful move might be to embrace time. To accept duration, sequence, ripening, erosion. To let a walk take as long as it takes. To allow a thought to remain unfinished. To recognise that age isn’t merely something happening to you but a medium you’re working in.
To embrace time is to stop treating the present as a waiting room for the life you’re meant to have later. It means entering into a relationship with beginnings, middles, endings, and returns. It means knowing that the finiteness of the afternoon gives the afternoon its flavour.
You don’t conquer time. You enter it, fully and without bargaining. You give the hour your attention, let the unfinished remain unfinished, and stop demanding that every part of life justify itself through progress. If you stay attentive, you may discover that time was never the cage.
It was the element in which a life could take shape.
Our unrealised potential will always draw us into the unknown of our lives, pulling us into territories we’ve yet to explore. It’s a mysterious, almost magnetic force, urging us to grow into aspects of ourselves we haven’t yet touched. But the call to reach our fullest potential doesn’t simply rely on the logical, step-by-step pacing we often cling to in our minds. Life’s timing is a far more intricate and elusive dance—one that involves the interplay of chronos, kairos, and cosmos.
Chronos is the kind of time most of us are familiar with—linear, quantitative, ticking away like the hands of a clock. It’s the time of schedules, deadlines, and daily routines. We think in terms of hours, days, months, and years, measuring progress through these increments. It’s the “when” we rely on to map out our life plan: graduate by this year, land that promotion by the time we’re 30, retire at 65. But as anyone who’s ever lived through a radical life change knows, the deeper milestones of our lives don’t always fit so neatly into chronos. Potential rarely blooms on a predictable schedule.
My absolute favourite song about time!
Enter kairos—the mythic time of opportunity, of significant moments that transcend the calendar. Kairos is qualitative; it’s felt in the soul rather than in the passing of minutes. This is the time we encounter when we’re struck by a sudden realisation, when life shifts in an instant, or when we recognise that a door has opened for us that was not there before. It’s the time of right timing, of synchronicity, when something clicks and the cosmos whispers, “Now.” Unlike chronos, kairos isn’t bound by expectation. It shows up when you least expect it, not according to your plan but in alignment with your personal growth and readiness. It asks us to listen deeply to the moments that arise within the flow of life.
And then there’s the vastness of the cosmos. If chronos is our clock and kairos our internal compass, the cosmos is the greater cosmic design, with its planetary movements and celestial rhythms. It’s the outer environment that shapes and influences the collective experience—the “when” that speaks to historical eras, cultural shifts, and the broader patterns that guide the unfolding of human life. Cosmos is the time of astrological ages, where the movements of planets and stars correlate with archetypal energies that impact both personal and collective consciousness. We’re participants in this grand cosmic dance, whether we’re aware of it or not, and its influence is undeniable.
When we think about reaching our unrealised potential, we have to honour all three of these dimensions. Chronos reminds us that time is finite and asks us to use it wisely. Kairos invites us to trust in life’s unfolding and to seize the moments of opportunity that present themselves. And the cosmos asks us to look beyond ourselves, to recognise that we are part of something larger, that our lives are woven into a greater cosmic fabric.
It’s easy to get lost in chronos, caught up in the pressure of deadlines and the societal markers of success. Yet the truth is, our potential doesn’t respond well to force or rigid timelines. Think of a flower trying to bloom on your command. You can water it and give it sunlight, but ultimately, it will unfold when it’s ready, according to its own kairos and the cosmos that governs all living things. The same goes for us. Our lives aren’t meant to be mechanical productions. Instead, they’re cyclical, flowing processes that ebb and rise in tune with both our internal and external worlds.
What does it look like to live aligned with all three—chronos, kairos, and cosmos? It means recognising that while we set plans and work towards goals (chronos), we also remain open to unexpected opportunities and changes in direction (kairos), all while keeping an eye on the larger cosmic forces at play, trusting in a greater design that may be unseen but ever-present. It’s a balancing act between doing and being, between structure and flow, between action and reflection.
The invitation to explore our unrealised potential is an ongoing one, full of paradox. It calls us to be deliberate but also to let go of control. To take action but also to rest in trust. To honour the clock but to never forget the mystery. In the end, reaching our potential isn’t about running a race against time but about dancing with it. It’s about understanding that the seeds we plant today may bloom tomorrow—or in ten years, when the timing is ripe.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the real magic lies: in allowing our potential to unfold, not according to the rigid schedules we’ve imposed, but in alignment with the mysterious rhythm of time that cradles us all.
Here’s a Tarot spread designed to explore the interplay of chronos, kairos, and cosmos as they relate to your personal journey and unrealised potential. This spread will help you align with different layers of time and recognise the opportunities, lessons, and influences present in your life. You can use this spread as a way to gain insight into your unfolding potential and how best to navigate it.
Chronos, Kairos, Cosmos Spread
Card 1: Chronos—What is my current relationship with time?
This card reveals how you’re navigating linear time—your schedules, deadlines, and daily responsibilities. It can highlight where you’re feeling the pressure of time or how you’re managing your progress towards goals. It speaks to your relationship with the ticking clock of life.
Card 2: Kairos—Where is the moment of opportunity calling me?
This card represents the opportune moment, the kairos time. It shows where there may be a hidden or emerging opportunity that you need to be aware of. Look for synchronicities, intuitions, or moments that feel “right” to make a move, regardless of linear time.
Card 3: Cosmos What larger forces are at play in my life right now?
This card shows the cosmic or archetypal energies influencing your life. It’s the greater pattern you are part of—your connection to collective shifts, astrological transits, or the broader environment that might be shaping your current circumstances.
Card 4: The Unfolding What potential is waiting to be realised?
This card represents the unrealised potential within you. It may point to an aspect of yourself, a skill, or a life path that is still in the process of coming into being. This card sheds light on what is growing or emerging.
Card 5: Timing Alignment – How can I align with the flow of time?
This card shows how you can best balance the influences of chronos, kairos, and cosmos to step into your potential. It’s about finding harmony between action and patience, between effort and surrender.
Card 6: Obstacles—What is blocking my potential from unfolding?
This card identifies any blockages or resistance preventing you from fully stepping into your potential. It could be a limiting belief, an external circumstance, or something internal that needs to be addressed.
Card 7: Advice—What step should I take next?
This card offers practical advice on the next step to take in order to move forward in your journey. It can provide guidance on how to work with the timing and energies at play and help you embrace the unfolding process.
This spread allows you to explore your life’s rhythm on multiple levels and find ways to better align with your potential. It encourages a balance between the practical aspects of time and the more mystical, intuitive moments of flow, while also keeping the larger cosmic energies in view. Try this spread when you’re feeling pulled in different directions or uncertain about when and how to act on your dreams.
And here’s how the cards unfolded for me
Card 1: Chronos—Six of Pentacles
The Six of Pentacles appeared in the chronos position, urging me to look at how I’m balancing time and energy, especially in terms of giving and receiving. This card invites me to reflect on where I’m investing my time and whether I’m finding harmony in my exchanges with others. It feels like a gentle nudge to check if I’m overextending or, conversely, not giving enough. There’s a call here to create a flow of generosity and mentorship, knowing that what I offer with an open heart will eventually come full circle, bearing long-term rewards.
Card 2: Kairos – King of Swords
In the kairos position, the King of Swords suggests that my moment of opportunity lies in clarity, logic, and decisive action. I’m being asked to cut through distractions and focus on what’s truly important. Kairos isn’t about waiting for time to pass—it’s about recognising when the moment to act is right. I feel like this is a time to step into my authority, trust my intellect, and communicate my truth with conviction. The King of Swords tells me to wield my mental sharpness wisely and make the strategic moves that will propel me forward.
Card 3: Cosmos—Ten of Pentacles
The Ten of Pentacles in the cosmos position reminds me that I’m part of something larger—this is about legacy, abundance, and creating something lasting. The cosmos is encouraging me to think long-term, to look beyond immediate gains and focus on what I want to build that will endure. This card is deeply connected to family, community, and the idea of laying down roots that can support future generations. It feels like the universe is guiding me to contribute to a larger story, something that will ripple through time and benefit others beyond my own lifetime.
Card 4: The Unfolding – Queen of Swords
As the Queen of Swords appeared in the unfolding position, I felt a message about my potential still waiting to be fully realised. There’s an aspect of clarity, wisdom, and communication within me that’s yet to bloom completely. This card speaks to the ongoing process of stepping into my voice with grace and authority. The Queen of Swords asks me to trust my intellect, speak my truth without fear, and embrace the balance between emotion and reason. My potential lies in my ability to communicate clearly, compassionately, and with the sharpness of a seasoned guide.
Card 5: Timing Alignment—The Star
What a relief to see The Star here! This card in the alignment position tells me to trust in divine timing. It’s a reminder that hope and faith are essential right now and that my path is unfolding exactly as it should. The Star brings healing and renewal, and I’m being called to follow my inner guiding light, trusting that the universe is supporting me in ways I might not fully see yet. It’s a call to align with my higher vision and to trust that, despite challenges, everything is coming together in its perfect time.
Card 6: Obstacles—The Tower
The Tower in the obstacle position immediately struck a chord. It’s clear that the biggest block to my potential lies in my resistance to change. The Tower’s destruction isn’t a punishment but a necessary upheaval, clearing away what no longer serves me. Old systems, beliefs, or structures might be crumbling, and my task is to let them go. There’s a part of me clinging to stability, but this card reminds me that sometimes the collapse is exactly what’s needed to make way for new growth. It’s time to release what I’ve outgrown, even if it feels uncomfortable.
Card 7: Advice—Seven of Pentacles
The Seven of Pentacles closes the spread with a clear message: patience. This card encourages me to reflect on how far I’ve come and recognise that growth takes time. The seeds I’ve planted are still developing, even if the results aren’t visible just yet. I’m being asked to tend to my work, to stay patient and keep nurturing what I’ve started, trusting that the fruits of my labour are on their way. It’s about honouring the slow, steady process of growth, knowing that with time, everything will come to fruition.
Reflection:
This spread paints a picture of balance, patience, and embracing both clarity and change. The Six of Pentacles reminds me to balance the flow of energy in my life, while the King of Swords calls for decisive, strategic action when the moment is right. The cosmos is guiding me towards a long-term vision of abundance (Ten of Pentacles), but there’s still so much potential within me to communicate more clearly and with grace (Queen of Swords). I’m aligning with divine timing (The Star), though The Tower warns that I need to release old systems to grow. Ultimately, the Seven of Pentacles reminds me that patience is key—growth is happening beneath the surface, and it’s all unfolding as it should.
As I continue this journey, I’m reminded that time works on many levels, and realising my potential requires me to dance with all of them—chronos, kairos, and the greater cosmic rhythm.
There is a moment in the spiritual journey when the familiar boundaries of our world begin to dissolve. We find ourselves no longer confined to the smallness of here and the fleetingness of now. Instead, these once-limited concepts expand into something vast, something boundless. When here becomes Everywhere and now becomes Always, we touch the essence of something profound—One.
But what does this really mean? How can here become Everywhere, and now become Always? These ideas might sound abstract, even poetic, but they point to a deep and transformative experience that many mystics, sages, and seekers have touched upon throughout the ages.
Let’s start with here. Typically, here is a place. It’s where you are right now—your home, your city, your physical location. But in a deeper sense, here is a state of being, a point of consciousness. When we are fully present, truly mindful, here becomes more than just a geographical marker; it becomes a doorway into the infinite. Suddenly, here isn’t just this room or this body—it’s the whole universe. Every particle, every being, every star, is right here within the scope of our awareness.
This is what it means for here to become Everywhere. It’s a shift from seeing ourselves as separate entities in a vast, unknowable cosmos to recognizing that we are, in fact, deeply connected to every part of that cosmos. There’s a beautiful line from Rumi that captures this: “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” When here becomes Everywhere, we experience this truth firsthand. We see that the boundaries we once thought were so real—between self and other, between inside and outside—are merely illusions. We are not isolated; we are part of an infinite, interconnected web of existence.
And then there’s now. If here relates to space, now relates to time. We often think of now as a fleeting moment, a point on a timeline that’s always slipping through our fingers. But what if now wasn’t just a point? What if it was something eternal, something that contains all of time within it?
When we become deeply present, truly rooted in the moment, time seems to stretch. The past and the future lose their grip on us, and we enter into a state of timelessness. This is when now becomes Always. It’s an experience of eternity in the present moment, where every second feels like it holds all the moments that ever were or will be. The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus once said, “Time is a game played beautifully by children.” In this state, we see that time is not a straight line, but a vast, intricate web in which every moment is connected to every other moment. Now is no longer something that passes; it’s something that is—always, eternally.
When here becomes Everywhere and now becomes Always, we step into the realm of One. This is the state of Oneness, where all dualities collapse, and we realize that we are not separate from the world around us. We are the world around us. The walls between self and other, time and space, dissolve, and what remains is a deep, abiding sense of unity.
This Oneness is not just a philosophical concept; it’s an experiential truth. It’s the recognition that beneath the surface of our everyday lives, beneath the noise and the chaos, there is a deep, still current of unity that connects everything. When we touch this Oneness, we see the world differently. We see that every being, every object, every moment is a reflection of the same divine essence. We see that we are part of something infinite, something that transcends our individual lives.
In this space of Oneness, we find a profound sense of peace. We are no longer struggling against the flow of life, trying to carve out a place for ourselves in a vast and uncaring universe. Instead, we are flowing with life, moving in harmony with the rhythms of the cosmos. We see that we are not separate from the world, but an integral part of it.
So how do we reach this state? How do we allow here to become Everywhere and now to become Always? The path is simple, yet profound: it’s the path of presence. By being fully present in each moment, by embracing the here and now with all our being, we begin to dissolve the boundaries that limit us. We begin to see the infinite within the finite, the eternal within the moment. And in that seeing, we touch the essence of One.
This journey is not about escaping the world or transcending our human experience. It’s about embracing it fully, seeing the divine in the mundane, the infinite in the everyday. It’s about realising that we are not separate from the world around us, but deeply, intimately connected to it. When here becomes Everywhere and now becomes Always, we step into the fullness of life, into the dance of the One, where all is connected, and all is sacred.
The only time you don’t have time is when you don’t and that only happens once!
Even the best of us get tripped up by the things we preach about regularly. And today, I got tripped up, but I quickly caught myself, made the necessary adjustments, and then soldiered on.
My final conclusion on time is this: the only time you truly don’t have time to do something is when you’re dead.
Ok listen. I’m going to play for a while so if things get a bit weird on here, don’t panic. It’s just a phase. Pardon me while I burst into flames, a line I borrowed from Incubus, perfectly describes my state of mind. But as the Smashing Pumpkins sang;
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
So much for that. Anyway, i took a roadtrip down to Cheltenham to watch the boy graduate. How many years has it been since i walked across the stage to receive my university diploma? 25 years! Egats man. Time is a beast.
This rat never saw it coming. i bought into the idealism of youth, those lofty dreams of changing the world, despite the fact that the world didn’t and doesn’t need changing. It is what it is. Always has been, and will be long after I’m gone. Somebody pour me a drink. Get the whiskey flowing. I can’t write another dry word.
This isn’t about me. It’s about you and me and us and them and they and aliens with space probes probing the dark galaxies that God abandoned when he saw creation had gone Pete Tong in him. I’m just God’s comic stuck here to suffer in this planet. I feel like I’m responsible but I can’t do it by myself. Once there was a girl. I lost her a long time ago in the garden. On days when the wind blows just right i can smell her presence.
I am
Who else can
I be
But myself
Even when
I am
Pretending
To be
Someone else
I am
Still and only
Myself
Did I kill something in me when I let you go? When I stopped reading and following the knowledge trail until it ended in big gains, big game. I don’t remember all the names of the writer’s I read in those days. It was a time of fantasy and other worlds within worlds. I held the order in my mind. Then chaos seeped in. And I embraced her. She was bitter and sweet. Her breath smelled of ancient cigarettes and her small breasts were lost inside her cashmere sweater.
Who are you? Who do you fear you are? Who do you pretend to be to hide the Hyde within you?
Is there something wrong with me? Did I not turn out how you imagined me to be? One day there will be no more me or I and the dream will be permanent.
I would hate to get to the end of time and think, what a waste
of time.
Feeling good is good enough and I’m feeling good as good gets right now.
Oh to be 25 again and have all that space and time to seek power and glory. Youth is wasted on the wrong people or so they tell me. These days, I’m inclined to believe them. I watch the youth from the sidelines and shake my head in despair. You can’t tell them anything though. They won’t listen. I didn’t listen. 25 years later, they’ll be the ones writing this post wondering where has the time gone. I must be getting old…
Time freedom is like a mythical creature we chase believing it will somehow make our lives better if we can find and catch it.
I was reading through this list of life hacks and noticed that a lot of the hacks are about saving time.
Americans spend 9.1 years of their lives watching TV, 1.1 years cleaning and 11 hours a day in front of digital media. In particular, women spend 8 years of their lives shopping, 1.5 years doing their hair and nearly 1 year deciding what to wear!Living a more minimalist lifestyle means we can reclaim some of this wasted time and spend it doing something we love – rather than standing in front of a jam-packed wardrobe despairing over which shoes work with which skirt!
A lot of these are functions of modern living. If you weren’t doing these, what would you be doing instead? If you had an extra 2 hours a day, what would you do with it?
I think we have to question our basic priorities in order to rearrange how we spend our time.
That said, here are 19 minimalist hacks to maximise your life. I particularly like:
Purge, don’t organise.
Organising now means reorganising later, again and again, and again. If you haven’t touched it in six months, toss it or re-home it, but don’t store it.
Use it or lose it.
Give your wardrobe a minimal overhaul and discover less stress getting dressed and lots of time saved on laundry.
Embrace new media.
Cancel your magazine subscription and stop buying the newspaper. Not only will Mother Nature be glad, but you will too. You don’t have to miss out, though, as everything you need can be consumed in digital format. While you’re at it, ‘opt out’ of junk mail and sign up for e-banking.
