# Busyness in Indolence

[source](https://pixabay.com/photos/time-death-life-still-life-5393588/)

If you're from Bangladesh, the chances are you had to memorize and regurgitate the essay "Value of Time" on the answer sheet. It was one of the sure-shot essays you could memorize. For all the time we had to read it, we never really understood the meaning of it. Later in our lives as adults, when we're reminded of the importance of time, it doesn't mean anything to the mass of the people. When they say, time is money; we cringe inwardly—***everyone knows money is money, and time is worthless. Plenty of time. Time isn't going anywhere. We still have time. Let's save some money by grinding instead.*** And outwardly, we want to avoid the discussion altogether. We would actually love to ignore the people who think in such a line as well. And if we can't ignore them, we think of them as good for nothing romantics.

It appears to me people are constantly going through rigorous efforts not to comprehend what the passing of time signifies—which is understandable; I assume most of them would lose their sanity if they were conscious about it constantly. I would assume I wouldn't like that either.

I've been wasting time in indolence for a long time with random phases of active, acute awareness. And each of them usually sends a shiver down my spine. I soon forget the whole ordeal. Our body is resourceful at forgetting things that have the potential to harm us after all, psychologically or otherwise.

But I have become increasingly wary lately; of how time passes even when I'm not conscious about it. A sort of uneasiness hangs somewhere back of my throat, like an itch you cannot scratch. I feel like there is a duality of presence in me, they are engaged in a vicious dispute. One wants to make most of the time I have on earth, the other one carelessly wants to gossip, play games, socialize, and do some other similar things that catch my attention pretty quickly and keep me distracted.

And I'm torn, utterly torn.

—notacinephile