January 3, 2021•181 words
Each year, during New Year's Eve, I felt something. A change. A new beginning. It was a similar feeling every year.
This time though, I haven't felt anything. Just a change of the date, nothing more. Maybe that was because I was physically exhausted. Or, maybe, I just didn't care.
This got me thinking about my relationship with time as a concept. About how, as a very "scheduled" person, I live from minute to minute, from hour to hour. At least, that's how I lived before the pandemic. I'd hyper-schedule and over-plan almost everything. Sure, it has its benefits. Benefits I, quite frankly, like. But, at the same time, scheduling everything brings a lot of extra weight to somebody's life.
Only this past year, actually, pretty late into the year, I saw the truth; I'm an artist. I can't schedule myself. The only times when I can be creative, productive, and happy are when I have space. A super-tight schedule leaves no space.
Creating more space allowed me to feel no stress.
Something I haven't felt in a long time.