I Don't Know

“Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” ―William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

When people say they need time, I can't help but look at them askance. "Time" is so...imprecise. When I give myself time, I often give myself deadlines, increments of my categorized day. Giving myself time would mean the length of time it would take to get a haircut, my nails done, a cup coffee, finish an article. For bigger goals, I give myself a month, two months, a season.

So when I ask others, "How much time?" I am filled with such unease when answered, "I don't know."

The fear isn't from the droning on and on and on of time ad nauseum. It's just that...the I Don't Know.

I don't know where this constant—and I do mean ever so painfully constant—sense of urgency comes from. I mean, I know, I'm a Type A personality, so I get it. But seriously, where does this constant need to hurry, to finish, to accomplish come from? Because, you know what? I'm tired.

Where does it come from?!? I shout to the ether.

"I don't know," it said.

Well, ain't that just grand.

“The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss—an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc.—is sure to be noticed.” ―Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death

All these I Don't Knows makes me feel like I'm losing myself, very quietly. I've lost so much (and gained a lot, and lost some more), but this loss of self in the hurried-ness of finding out is making me feel like I'm slowly disappearing.

But oh, don't mind me. What do I know, right? Nothing. My name is Jon Snow, and I know nothing.

Because, really, the question is, how much time are you asking of me? How much time must I bate my breath?

And you don't know. Of course you don't.

And I don't know.