Speeding Up, Slowing Down
I feel like a passenger in a car. The world is whizzing by outside the window. There’s nothing I can do to stop the car, or the world. I glimpse this or that, yet I know that I see little; the experience is one of nothing other than the sensation of passing through, quickly.
Experiencing nothing: sounds like death. Passing through some otherness sounds like either purgatory, or a circle of hell.
Have you ever tried to meditate mindfully whilst travelling? I just can’t do it.
I try to step out of the car. Get a handle on life. Experience the whole experience, not just the rushing through. I can. And I can’t. I never quite know which, partly because the world conspires against me, space time rushing past my window whether I like it or not.
I know that there’s an explanation for this shit: that as we age our perception of time speeds up. And yet… there is nothing like the 46th festive period in one lifetime to isolate how consumerism colludes with space time, as I try to slow the whole thing down, just a little.
Christmas arrives in the shops in autumn. Naked displays of fairy lights go up in people’s front rooms in November, only to be ripped down before New Year’s Day is out; it’s like the Epiphany never happened. The sales start before Christmas, some end before January 1st. I can still remember when a sale started on January 1st, if you were lucky.
The whole of December becomes a debauchery decked in twinkles; January an ascetic’s dream: detoxes and dryathlons and gym memberships fight for space on soon to be failed lists of resolutions. Gratification must be yesterday, otherwise it just doesn’t count.
But. None of it… none of it is real.
The world speeds up. I slow down.
Do you hear me you world?