The Meaning of Time | Esencia Journal

March 2019

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Today, I allow myself to slow down. 

I need to reflect on the very notion of time. Everything happens so fast that sometimes the feeling that an event—or a person—ever truly existed simply fades away. My thoughts return to V., and suddenly, two years ago, becomes indistinguishable from the seconds just passed.

I drift into this elastic notion of time, and I find myself surrounded by everyone who has ever carved a place in me. I relive every wound and every joy at once: I feel them overlapping, repeating, transforming. Moments, faces, and memories replicating themselves across the years, folding slowly into a single name: V.

I realize, perhaps for the first time, that what I truly long for is to let everything go and be fully by myself. In this solitude, the nightmares leave, and a soft, almost childlike serenity settles within me. In my own presence, fragility is free of shame.

But the clock—ever insistent— reminds me of the fleeting moments of my fragile existence. And I'm still living. And yet, I give myself permission to dream, to trust, to desire, and to try again, no matter how long it takes, until I arrive at what feels true. Returning to myself, I wonder if vulnerability is real at all, or if it is simply a concept created when we first conceived the notion of time. But if time is an illusion, then…

In the quiet, a voice emerges.

A soft voice, but firm, whispers that to write with truth, I must write as if no one will ever read it—no one but myself. Only then can I open up spaces I do not yet understand and inhabit the corners of myself still unnamed.

And that is how a story begins. Our story: V.’s and mine.

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