restless peasant: life, changing :

Time flies.

A new study sheds light on why time flies, or at least seems to, as we get older.

On the face of it another daft study into bugger all, but on closer inspection it really does explain a great deal about the different perception we have of time as we age. An hour to my 5 year old self seemed like an interminable wait.

Now an hour just zips by looking out the window.

And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun. Time, Pink Floyd

I go to a concert and of course the young musicians look like they have it sussed. They are so talented and have achieved so much in their young, vibrant lives…what have I done with all of that time?

Enter Nostalgia; we can’t get back lost time, but can we slow it down a little by spending each moment (when we remember to) actually present? Or can we at least make sense of this flying time through creativity?

Beside one loch, a hind’s neat skeleton,
Beside another, a boat pulled high and dry:
Two neat geometries drawn in the weather:
Two things already dead and still to die.

I passed them every summer, rod in hand,
Skirting the bright blue or the spitting gray,
And, every summer, saw how the bleached timbers
Gaped wider and the neat ribs fell away.

Time adds one malice to another one–
Now you’d look very close before you knew
If it’s the boat that ran, the hind went sailing.
So many summers, and I have lived them too.

Norman MacCaig

 



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