I am writing this after contemplating Fanon’s “Black Skin, White Masks” and undertaking a full sequence of reading on the way to reading Homi K. Bhabha’s “The Location of Culture” upon Shahril Hamdan’s recommendation – incidentally, after failing to understand it and after complaining to Shahril, I realized that perhaps it was not the book that was fundamentally flawed, however many articles I found describing how it is badly written.

Rather, it was myself – But I suppose I will go through that thought process another day.

What’s more important is that each day, I’m reminded of the value of time nowadays. I wonder if this is a neurosis. Perhaps it has something to do with the affective way that I’ve been influenced by life all this while. Maybe it is path dependent and the result of my previous decisions.

Either way, I look now at the seconds, at the measurements, at how they are organized, and at how everything contributes in sum to the totality of what I am. In the realization that all of it is finite, finite, oh so finite, what can a man do in a lifetime? That is unclear. How much in an hour can be quantified? Will he, in fact, overestimate what he can do in a year but underestimate what he can do in five? That is really up to him at the end of the day and the truism really does nothing but provide small and cheap comfort.

It seems a little strange that all of this should have given rise to the appreciation of time that I currently have, but it’s just dawned upon me that there are so many books to read and there’s so little time. Yet there are so many of them that need to be understood, apprehended, and integrated into my consciousness before I will be ready to really do what I need to do. That is why I feel every second, every minute, every moment in a deeper sense of feeling. In the realization that every breath that I take, every moment I’m awake, and these contemplations that I pen with my voice in the middle of my oldest home are all passing into an eternity where it will all be gone one day