Technically time doesn’t go quickly. It goes at the same speed, depending on how you’re measuring it.
Actually that might not be right. I just remembered something my dad told me about physicists proving that under certain conditions time can speed up and slow down. Something about trains passing each other. A mirror may have been involved. Or a beam of light. I don’t know. My brain systematically melts this sort of knowledge to make way for things like lyrics of songs I haven’t heard since the ’90s and didn’t even enjoy then.
Anyway. As I grow older time seems to go faster. It’s not surprising. People told me that would happen. People say it a lot. It’s a universal experience I think.
But it’s still a bit disconcerting. It was my 26th birthday last weekend. If you’re older than 26 you’re probably thinking you just wait. You think that’s old and scary. You just wait. You’re right.
Next year, providing I reach my 27th birthday intact, I’ll be looking back at my sprightly, youthful 26-year-old self thinking. Oh you naive little thing you. Age. It just keeps on coming. And there’s a paradox here because you’d think that you’d get used to it over time. But it seems to get increasingly surprising. Suddenly I’m closer to 30 than I am to 20 and it’s surprising, because I suppose I always thought deep down that I was immortal.
Of course the nicer idea is that we mark our birthdays to celebrate our survival: the fact that we made it this far, because making it isn’t a guarantee. We’re not immortal and if tragedy doesn’t get us, time will.
Oh my god I didn’t mean to get this morbid. Maybe it’s because it’s Sunday evening and I’ve got work in the morning and it’s raining in a gloomy, heavy sort of way, and I was on holiday last week and now I’m not. Sorry.
That’s the trouble with holidays. They end. Much like life.
Okay. I think I need to go and watch a comedy or something.