I have no real concept of time. Actually, at 24, I still struggle immensely to tell the time. Hours don’t hold much meaning to me. An hour, half an hour, 15 minutes; they all feel so similar. Like a colour with various shades, there is a difference, but it is so slight and so minute that all of them seem to blend into one. So, I count and measure time by distinct happenings, observations and feelings: when the postman comes, when I feel a pang of hunger, when I hear the kettle boil or the front door slam, when my arm starts to ache while I’m brushing my teeth, when the receptionist has spoken to eight people and made two phone calls and I’m still sat waiting, when I hear the bins being put out… This is how I tell time. Unconventional, unreliable and strange, but I glide through my…
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