I have a vivid memory of staring at the seconds ticking by on my clock the summer of 2012. Tick, tock, tick, tock. That was the summer I spent as much time as humanly possible with my then-boyfriend before he moved abroad for a year. The summer I fell too deep into our relationship and forgot who I was without him, the summer when I defined myself by my relationship to him and lost sight of everything. The summer that, when bereft of his company, I chose to lay on my bed one empty Saturday afternoon and stare at my clock, literally watching time go by. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It’s so strange to think back on that afternoon because I can’t fathom how I had so little to do (and was so bored enough) that staring at the slow-moving hands of a clock seemed like a good way to spend my time. Didn’t I have a book to read? Blog posts to write? Texts to send? Emails to reply to? Music to listen to? TV shows to watch? Hell, even a nearby park to go take a walk in?? Apparently not.