Time’s deceptive des/ascent is chaotic, but I think I’ve managed to nail down a pattern in amongst the madness.
Coming up on a D-Day, whether it’s moving, starting a new job, or a much anticipated concert, Time is that age spotted, balding man in the broke down 4×4 Chevy, petering along in front of you when you’re already running late. He taps the breaks, he waits for invisible cars at intersections where he has the right of way, he stops for every little old lady wanting to cross in the middle of the block.
But once the old guy finally, blessedly turns off to putt and sputter his way down a side street, you suddenly realize “Holy crap. I’m here.” In other words, once you get there, the getting-there doesn’t feel as long.
I’m six, “short” days away from hopping a plane that will take me to the other side of the country. Farewell – at least for now – to the city I have considered my “heart home” since I was 13. Oh, it’s not the city’s fault. I’ve come to the conclusion that one should never attend university in a city they love, or expected to love. Inevitably, some of the stress of schooling seeps out and soaks into the fabric of the city itself, leaving it somewhat tainted, worse for wear after all the studying and sweating and late nights finishing assignments. As far as I can see, it’s unavoidable. The only surefire way avoid such a conundrum is to attend school in places you already don’t like.
I’m being a bit tongue-in-cheek, of course. I certainly don’t hate Halifax – far from it – and if I’m being completely honest, the unexpectedly cold winter probably has as much to do with my fleeing as does the demanding course work. But I do think that moving somewhere for a motive besides pleasure can put a bit of a damper on the locale after a while.
That, however, is neither here nor there. What is here, is the painfully front-and-centre fact that I am wading through the final three minutes of my fourth-to-last day of work, closing in on eight hours that feel more like twenty seven. And I have work to do, but my eyes seem demonically possessed, drawn to those fateful digital digits in the bottom corner of my computer screen. Since when are there thirteen minutes between 3:47 and 3:54?
But when I get home, I can cross another day off a calendar now heavy with the thick, black ink I’ve been scratching across its surface for 43 days. I’m into the final countdown. I’m on the home stretch. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Funny – that light is shaped an awful lot like Life.