Time without time

The alarm has just gone off. It’s the middle of the week and a silent scream rises in my head, in chorus with the buzzing of the clock. I literally throw myself out of bed. I’ve perfected a roll between the sheets that ends with my feet on the floor. And once I’m in that position, the cold tiles do the rest.

I grope for my slippers in a hurry, because the temperature has dropped.

That blessed freezing floor!

I rush to the kitchen and feed the cats, who are far more awake than I am and start yowling as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

I rush to the bathroom, shower without waiting for the water to warm up because there’s no time, and get dressed in a hurry, praying that yesterday I had my head screwed on and laid out an outfit that matches (it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone out in a riot of colours because I didn’t check what I’d picked).

I gulp down my coffee and eat my pastry on the way while buttoning my coat with the other hand. I’m going so fast I don’t feel the cold wind. I run, run and run. Running all day: to catch the bus; to make the metro, barging past people on the stairs; to get everywhere on time; to wolf down lunch; to keep the house clean… And at night, either I can’t sleep because I’m revved up, or I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, like a black hole I wake up from feeling uneasy.

Sound familiar?

Some time ago I decided that breakfast was a great moment to prepare my day. I get up a little earlier so I don’t start the day at a sprint, and I plan it: tasks I can’t put off, appointments I can’t miss, important activities, time for leisure…

That’s how I set my priorities. The things I like least I get done quickly to get them out of the way. For the things I enjoy, I choose the hours I like best, so I can savour those moments more.

And if the day goes wrong? Eyes wide open. An unexpected traffic jam, a broken-down train, a washing machine that packs up… Sometimes there’s nothing for it but to put up with a setback. When I’m out, I always carry a book and a sketchbook (I once saw a woman knitting on a stalled metro; she got loads done). I can get angry, tense and anxious, or I can look around and draw, write or read. I receive those moments as gifts. If the mishap happens at home, I try to get stuck in as soon as possible. With music in the background, the “tragedies” sometimes shrink.

Some time ago I decided to stop being a hamster running on its wheel. Sometimes I’m quick and manage to do lots of things. Other times, time slips through my fingers.

But one thing I’m sure of: my time is mine.

The title of this post comes from Mario Benedetti’s poem “Tiempo sin tiempo” (“Time without time”), in which the poet asks for time for himself — time to look at a tree, to realise things, to wind himself up again. It’s well worth reading in full.