There is nothing that causes me greater anguish than the thought of wasting time, if only for just a second. Every night before bed, my mind twists and unravels, looking for particular solutions to this dilemma: to maximize every conversation, every moment in-between class—even during mealtime, where the dilly-dally of wandering exchanges makes me squirm in my wobbly seat, picking my nails under the table to conceal my impatience. 

I’ve always wondered where this tendency, an implicit submission to time, came from. Perhaps it began when I was a child, crying on the stairs when my parents were two minutes late to take me to swim practice. I would stare at the clock on top of the stove like an alarm, for action, to put something into motion. 

I’m afraid that something catastrophic will happen to me.

Sitting in the car, I would be screeching at the top of my lungs watching the time tick away on the clock. Each scream represented a deprivation of a second of my time, with feverish trembles pulsing through my body at the simple thought of wasted time. The thought became unbearable to me, my legs kicking and kicking and kicking. Two minutes behind, I waited for whatever travesty was going to hit me. 

Yet, as I ran down to the pool deck, I found the other swimmers still in their clothes, our coach still writing the set on the board. My mind floated to a momentary silence, and my scrambling feet slowed at the bleachers. 

Oh,

I see. 

After practice, the feverish panic from before barely crossed my mind as I ate dinner, completed the rest of my schoolwork, and ran up the stairs for bed. 

It’s instantaneous—only when I turn off the light, turn to my side, and close my eyes does my conscience awaken again.

I must be forgetting something.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to control these thoughts within an exceptionally tight schedule. 

Yes, I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. 

Yes, I nap every early afternoon. 

Yes, I attend an exercise class every afternoon. 

But methodically, as second nature as painting brushstrokes onto a pliable canvas, I must, if only for my right hand to practice a familiar ritual, write these actions into my slim, black planner over and over again, days on days, weeks on weeks, to force myself to believe that no time will ever escape my notice. 

Lately, my relationship with time has withered to an intricate ebb and flow. Down to the minute, I write down everything I do in a day—the precise 18-minute nap, a 23-minute walk around the block after dinner, and 12 minutes to paint my nails before class. 

I make checklists, drawing a mini square box next to each activity. The thrill of control, the satisfaction of completing one task in exchange for another, almost fulfills my need for complete control of time. Perhaps this explains my demand to organize my daily tasks from most to least easily-accomplished, saving the most time-consuming for last. Tracing my fingers over and over again on the symmetrical square box, I shut my eyes. 

I hope the box fills someday. 

I’m afraid that the most demanding work might completely blow me away. 

My appetite comes back after finishing the hardest tasks. 

Yet, day after day of opening the planner and seeing the immense amount of work ahead of me, the lines between the reality of action to a life created out of fantasy and panic emerge. My prioritization of tasks dissipates. My concept of time dissolves. 

The words in front of me plainly represent a fictitious treatment of the present, a constant longing to gain something out of the looping, large font of my handwriting.

Who am I without time? Who am I without those rigid lines to guide me back to reality, to what is in front of me? What can I do with the looming clock over my head, counting down the seconds until my eyelids grow heavy, sleep nearly there, tickling my fingertips, hanging loosely over the bed?

Perhaps the questions I ask myself mirror the childlike ones I hid away for so long. They are beckoning for a recognition that the square boxes will be waiting for me if I decide to close my eyes mid-day, outstretch my arms, and lay against the hot gravel. 

My clammy hands feel warm against the pavement.

Perhaps, the box will always wait, in whatever capacity I deem fit. When I learn to grapple with control, perhaps the panic will lessen to a mumble. 

Perhaps the imbalance has always been trying to prove to me that the incessant rings in my head are melodic chimes sung by the long green grass, the fields bubbling with white blooming flowers. The red cardinals flutter around me, one landing on the bridge of my shoulder, twittering: 

“What is time without you?”