See more of Amy Scholten's original art at Inner Medicine Art Gallery
The clock rules my life, even more so as I get older. Plunging toward 50, the minutes and hours seem shorter and shorter, the race more urgent. There’s less time to accomplish dreams. More time to realize how much time I’ve wasted on being nothing but a dreamer. In a repeating compulsion to actualize my dreams once again, I realize that maybe I’m better off just being a dreamer. Maybe it’s what I do best.
Contemplation.
Imagination. In our time-driven world, these things aren’t seen as valuable,
but a waste of time. A life is not measured by one’s inner experience or spiritual
attainment but by the rhythm to which she achieves the values that her culture
deems worthy under the rule of the tick tocking of a tiny tyrannical machine. How many are praised for their ability to
worship the clock effectively by accumulating money, admirers, symbols of
status—a life “well lived” according to someone else, even if they’re not
genuinely happy or loving? Even if, in their “productive” use of time, they’re harming
creatures great and small because they haven’t taken the time to contemplate
who they are and what they’re really doing?
Sometimes I want to throttle the
clock, but then I realize its tyranny is a façade, a symbol, and nothing more.
In my contemplation, it loses its power over me, at least for a few minutes.
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