While at secondary school, we were taught the wonderful obscurity of time travel paradoxes—all those stories about twin brothers separated and reunited when one was elderly while the other was still young, space oddities (hello major Tom) and the like. But what I find fascinating is that I subliminally picked up this idea because a certain part of myself is still stuck somewhere between late February and early March, planning my fairly straightforward academic schedule until autumn, talks, papers and publications, while another part is sunk into limbo, filled with weird routines, poor working discipline, procrastination and a constant feeling of guilt: having so much precious time, how exactly do you spend it? Ask yourself, and the answer won’t make you happy.
It’s not that your convulsive attempts to change your basic approaches have failed completely: you certainly do at least something, but neither you nor you-stuck-in-early-March-self is satisfied with that. You-present blame yourself for not being focused enough whereas you-past is constantly freaking out, observing the order of the inevitable fails in your working calendar.
Is there a place for embracing your ability for slow progress? One step at a time, and the pile of unread books for work is getting smaller; the list of unfinished films getting shorter; you overall would get at least a glimpse of satisfaction. And evening walks, of course, nobody could survive without them.
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