Contradictions in time
I have been thinking about the strange way we perceive time. How certain periods can feel slow and fast at the same time, as if each detail stretches wide while the whole span collapses into a blur. Have you ever felt that?
Time doesn’t unfold evenly for me, no matter what the clock says. Routine compresses it, collapsing days and weeks into a haze that barely leaves a trace. New experiences and strong emotions, on the other hand, stretch it open, carving deeper grooves in memory. Absorption can make hours vanish unnoticed. Yet in the same state of focus, even a second can feel like an infinite universe. Looking back, it is often the richness and density of what we lived that determines how long a season feels—some months hold a lifetime, while whole years slip quietly away.
Sometimes these forces overlap, creating that contradictory sense of both dragging and rushing. A season charged with new emotions can feel stretched, each moment heavy with significance, yet when set against the blur of routine, the whole period later seems to have rushed by. Novelty insists on being noticed, routine dissolves into the background, and together they bend time in both directions at once.
If time itself is so slippery, then perhaps the only anchor we have is attention. Noticing the swell of new feelings or the quiet repetition of daily life gives shape to what might otherwise vanish. This is where my small, certain happiness lives: in the simple act of recognising a moment, holding it close, and letting it stay.
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Photo credit: my lovely @iamzozopie
#shōkakkō_thoughts
