From a technologically tampered mind… at 11PM
I don’t know if this is meant to be the quintessential teenage stage of existing within the constriction of academia gone
very slightly wrong, but right now three hours of continuous screen-glare and the chilling combination of two otherwise tolerable terms – design and technology – has left my brain in a fuzzy wuzz. See, there’s a red scribbly thing Microsoft so very well popularized beneath the ‘wuzz’. Even my brain is coming up with things that don’t make technological sense (god forbid, it’s haunting me!). And no, I’m not using ‘three hours’ as a means of time to reflect how minutely and fastidiously I inserted every last detail of my yet hypothetical school project into an impossibly small spreadsheet on Google Docs – I’m using it as a means to represent how my proportioning of time is beginning to worry me, and whether or not all of this is worth it, in the end.
As Leonardo Da Vinci fabulously put it, work is never finished – it is only abandoned. And in the hectic world of perfectionism that subsumes me in its little bubble, it’s no wonder why his words have stayed with us for so long. Is it a good idea to set out time in direct proportion to how much you enjoy it? How much satisfaction you will get out of it? Or how urgent it is, and how much someone is expecting for it to be turned in before the deadline?
In a busy world like ours, a lot of the time it’s the latter – and this makes me quite upset, really. Because time does fly, and I feel as if it’s only speeding up faster and faster as I grow older. I’m so conscious of how I spend my time, which does have its pros and cons… but then these thoughts lead me to the question: since when did time become a commodity? Or, if even more appropriate in my case… did it ever become a commodity in the first place, or is it only I who feels this way?
I want to do things that make me happy; things that I legitimately enjoy. Not things that make me feel forced, or constrained, or as if being locked to a machine for three hours would be the token needed – or the requisite number of die rolls before Mr. Monopoly is allowed to escape the jail – to feel complete and whole and as if I fulfilled something. Because to be honest, the assignment I’ve been working on was not a fulfilling task – it was only what someone else told me would be fulfilling. Now, it feels empty, it really does. After three hours… nope, where art thou, fulfilment?
I wanted to write. Throughout those excruciating, arduous three hours filled with incompatible spreadsheet columns and the falling of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups wrappers (whoops – what you get if your summer roomie just happens to live in America) I simply wanted to write about all the things I felt during that experience, which I’m doing now. And yes, this is fulfilment. I’m actually deriving a stronger sense of satisfaction from this then from that horrible task, and I’m so glad I took the time to write this.
Maybe this is what life’s about… doing what you love by proportioning your time wisely, and with justification.
Because at the end of the day, you are only assigned a certain number of minutes to live. And if you’ve got that finite number, why waste three hours on something you’ll probably forget? In a week? Beats me. I should have written this earlier, and a million more of these, too.