Where Have All the Good Times Gone? Oh. There They Are . . .
So. Time seems to speed up as I get older. Obviously. The speed is the obvious part. I’m hoping that I’m not getting older in any obvious way. For one thing, I already sound like an old man sometimes. People generally don’t seem to notice because I’m basically adorable, but there’s probably a portrait of me in some attic that looks like Mickey Rooney. If I actually start to look like that, no one’s even going to pretend to listen.
I’m thinking that this whole phenomenon of temporal acceleration occurs because I tend to live in the past. It’s not my primary residence or anything. I’ve made a good house for myself in the realm of dreams. Reality could almost qualify to be a second home, but it’s probably just a job. It’s the workplace. It’s not even the main one. I wander into the office for a few hours in the week, but I generally just work where I live.
In any case, I seem to fill a consistent percentage of the past with myself. Some of my time must accompany me. At the earlier stages of life, my past wasn’t very big. Therefore, I didn’t have to dedicate much of my essence and time to it. Now it has become quite large, and its growth doesn’t slow with age. Accordingly, I must give more of myself over to it in order to fill that same percentage. The expenditure of time keeps up with these proportions, leaving less for contemporary use. That’s why my time seems to be moving faster. I have less of it to experience in the present.
Best way to save time? Don't borrow it. The mortgage will kill you.