Good news — another hour has just been added to every 24-hour day (don’t ask us how. We have powers). How do you use those extra sixty minutes?
In my world it feels like every hour when I am not writing this blog is an extra hour.
You see writing this consumes me in such a way that I disappear into a well where the sun cannot reach. Time passes and I write an answer to my question of the day, and it is dark here, and I am in the bottom of a waterless well.
I suppose in my well sleep is the other constant that marks a day. And reading books. And eating. And listening to the radio. And practising mindfulness. And keeping my hygiene. But that is it. These all pass without worry or without me asking how much time it takes.
But when I am not acting out my routines, I watch the time. I climb out of my well. Who knows for how long. Maybe it is for exactly an hour. Maybe I already live in the 25 hour world. Someone may have tricked me into believing I am living a twenty-four hour day when in fact I have been living a twenty-five hour day all along. All it takes to prove the point is to remember what that extra hour feels like. What it feels like to watch time passing:
I climb out of my well. I see the sun shining, fluffy clouds hovering and shifting shapes with the breeze ruffling my hair, a force against my face, which becomes weathered as I grow older, into a chiselled surface. I see the depth of the lake surrounded by green mountains. I jump in the crystal clear water. The meniscus forms a tension between the edge of the water and my flesh, which becomes hard. I am frozen. The sun melts me. It starts raining and I am underneath a rainbow. I look up and find myself sat protected with a blanket from the cold. But my hairs are standing on edge. I forget everything, find the well and climb back in.
Maybe next time I have an extra hour I can take my watch with me. But until tomorrow I remember King Lear in Shakespeare: ‘Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.’ Funny when I think that is twenty-four hours.