X: When your job ends where do you plan to work? Have you started applying?
Me: Not sure yet, I think I might take some time off and work on my writing.
X: You mean just stay at home?
Me: Well, I’d be working on my writing . . .
X: But you need a job Aisha. Having a job helps pass the time.
I understand doing something for money, for enjoyment, for a sense of conviction, but to do a thing merely to pass time? Pass time until when? What exactly am I biding my time for? The prospect of doing a thing simply to fill up the hours of the day may make sense if you are waiting for lab results, or a job offer but passing time for no reason but for the sake of passing time? As though I have an eternity to squander in this way?
I fight trying to “pass the time” but I find myself doing it often. Sitting at my desk on Monday and counting the hours until the end of the day. Hoping the week will pass quickly, hoping Friday will come soon. Repeating the cycle every week. Yet what does this mean? That I live from one Friday to the next Friday? What is the time in between? Time to be passed? How awful to wish 3/4 of your life away like this.
If you’re taking jobs you don’t even believe in, or watching television shows that mean nothing, just to pass the time, then its time to truly examine your purpose in life. The cliche imploring life is too short is true, life is a nanosecond. You were not here on earth for eons and you are only here for a very temporary stay. How sad to waste this time, this precious time trying to figure out how to make the hours pass by quickly.
I’m trying to appreciate each minute, each hour, even if its pain I feel, its living. A hot shower on a cold day, my hands gripping a knife as I chop crisp vegetables, laying my head down for rest after a long day, holding a new book in my hands and turning each page. Each moment, a manifestation of life, a gift afforded to me. I should strive to create a better world, to find meaning and purpose, but I hope and pray that I never consider doing anything in order to simply pass the time. Time is passing, slipping through my fingers like fine grains of sand, I need not hurry it on its way.
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity– Thoreau