It’s that point in the summer where we are all trying to figure out where time went. And why, somehow, it inevitably goes so much faster in the summertime. Why can’t February just slip easily through our fingers? And is there any way to slow things down, now that we’re suddenly aware that it’s passing us by?
I suppose that’s the point of taking photos, of sending postcards, of taking notes. To freeze time, so that, when we look back, we’re transported to that place, that time, that moment. If we can’t slow it down, we can at least capture it.
This is the matter of time. The matter of time becomes what we fill it with. Because, with nothing else there, it’s just an empty, fleeting, floating concept.
So fill it. Fill it with late nights at bars with friends in Brooklyn. Fill it with stamps on your passport and confusion about conversion rates. Fill it with sandy shores and in salty seas. Fill it so full that it has no choice but to slow down.
It’s the only chance we’ve got.
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