Time is a commodity I’m always running out of. It slips by so fast when I’m engaged in a project, an activity, or with other people. At the same time it can creep by with painful slowness when I’m waiting for something, waiting for something to end.
Time itself isn’t moving slow or fast. It’s my perception of it.
This is something I’ve explored in story in a number of forms. Danyel and Tayel from Tales of the Navel lose track of time, even their own ages while sheltered in the Old Cottage with their family on the edge of shadow. What creeps in beyond the Door reminds them of other whens and wheres that only existed in story and imagination, but it took other people to remind them of the passage of time, to start thinking about their ages.
Rose in Fairest was only too aware of the passage of time as her sixteenth birthday and the time of her curse drew near. She only lost that awareness when she drifted in a dream. Even at those times her awareness didn’t disappear completely.
I lost my own awareness of time for a while when I left school and regular work. I stopped checking the time. I was startled when I realized I had no idea what the date was. I had to think for a moment, to remember how old I was.
It’s strange how the simple action of writing down the date can ground me in the when of the moment. I remember feeling so much for Will Graham on Hannibal when he lost track of not only where but when he was.
What about you, dear reader? Ever lose track of time? Does time play a part in your stories? Ever taken notice of a story where time played a crucial part?