Stretch Marks on Time’s Thighs

I realised I neglected this blog much more than I expected to when I wrote my first blog post about my trip to France. It feels so recent, yet so far away. Right after that trip, I started working – the painfully normal and socially accepted 9 to 5 routine. It makes life feel so alert, so dynamic. Having weekly meetings and monthly payslips makes you realise how quickly time passes by, and how annoyingly divisible it is. By dividing the time so mathematically precise as corporate offices do, life feels too much like nothing but a series of moments. It loses that natural flow and lightness that it is supposed to have – or at least that’s what art, in general, teaches us about it. It makes you virtually unable to lose track of it. Every action is just the result of another action, carefully fitted into a packed schedule. No evaporation, no condensation. Time only passes at a constant speed when you detach yourself from the rest. You detach at 9 and attach back at 5, as if nothing happened.

I’m sure everyone’s heard about the virus. Spread through conversations, handshakes, high fives, bro fists, hugs, la bise, kisses, love-making and everything else that makes us humans a race. Thanks to this virus, time stands still for a lot of people these days. They have the privilege of watching life merging into one long symphony, unbroken into scenes and acts.

Voyez-vous – a conclu mon chat, en s’allongeant devant la braise – le véritable bonheur, le paradis, mon cher maître, c’est d’être enfermé et battu dans une pièce ou il y a de la viande. Je parle pour les chats. (Le Paradis des chats, Émile Zola)

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