My fiancée’s friend sent us samples of a product he invented. It’s an organic sleeping patch. The idea is that you put a little, square sticker on your wrist before you sleep, and then you get some vitamins, herbs, and, with one of the patches, some melatonin delivered right into your veins.
I’ve only tried them twice, but so far, I have to hand it to him: God’s Elf really is heavenly. Great work Eddie! The patches are easy to use, smell nice, and the branding is spot on. The latter is why I’m telling you this story: Each patch has a little note of encouragement on it. Yesterday’s read: “Time isn’t separate from life; it is life.” It really made me think—especially because, yesterday, I ended up working late and going to bed at 2 AM, having to wake up again at 7.
Every time we go to sleep, it’s a bit as if we die and are reborn the next morning. And even if we haven’t, it can feel as if yesterday is dead. Like we got sucked through a wormhole in time, and now the last 24 hours are a place we can never access again. Technically, that’s true—and yet, throughout all of this, we are alive. Time may not stop, but neither does life. It’s not a series of rooms we enter with a one-day timer on each of them. It’s a river, forever flowing, slowly carrying us from one moment to the next.
When I reflect on a less-than-optimal day like yesterday, perhaps I shouldn’t think of it in terms of hours wasted, overtime required, and lack of sleep induced thereof. Maybe it’s enough to consider it a short while of life spent a little differently. The river brought me to a new place, and I floated straight through. It was unusual, perhaps a bit uncomfortable, but I still learned. I still lived.
Time can feel like this massive blob of dough we are constantly kneading, shaping, hoping to chop it into just-right-sized bits. It’s not. It’s all around us, inseparable from our existence. As long as we live, we’re in time, and time will be with us until the end—even while we’re sleeping soundly thanks to the latest invention of a friend.
