I waste time. The sentence written with disgust and weariness means exactly what it means. That time is one thing in this world that exists as a permanent itch that you can choose to scratch or just pretend it doesn’t exist. Musicians have sung about it, philosophers thought about it and preachers preached about it. Even in Einstein’s world of relativity time can be only perceived as a constant. And I waste it. So logic has it that I was useless and purposeless for those few minutes I choose not to scratch.
But there exist something more profound more complicated that makes time so abstract.
For if my life is limited on this planet then so is my time. Then wasting time means wasting precious seconds of existence. For those of us who think man (wait the feminists are protesting) or humans were created for a purpose, the precious seconds wasted could dent a hole in the overall picture of gods plan. Or if you are an atheist, it’s a hole in life’s plan. But if human life were purposeless just a dialectical circle of chaos then there ceases an importance of time.
I may have wasted my time writing this. But if intimate reflections like this are a waste of time then I choose to waste my time happily. That's me.